Misfits
by Cansei de Ser Sexy
Summary: Naming people they helped as "person of interest" was easy, but she could never find anything that sterile for them. Partners didn't seem adequate, and friends sounded like an exaggeration. The only thing she could think of was a bunch of misfits, Misfits that could only get their catharsis by someone else's tragedies.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Hello. New story, new fan. I've started watching Person of Interest recently, only had seen the pilot but never had the opportunity to continue. Now, I did, and wanted to make something with it. Hope you will like it. Attention, though, this is going to have a Female!Fusco. It won't be the same character in the show, apparently, but more like "Plus ça Change", the more things change, the more they are the same. The same thing applies to the show, as well. _

_Enjoy._

**PROLOGUE: Catharsis**

_May, 2015_

In the dark, Lauren Fusco dreamed of the sea.

The coast was white, dark was mystical as it always was before the break of dawn. Barefoot, she walked along the shore, the soft cotton white dress's hem billowing around her ankles with each step. Small flawless pebbles crunched under her feet as gentle waves created a murmured wordless song in her ear. She didn't know where it was or how long she walked or how much time had passed, and she didn't care. It was peaceful, serene, so much so that the things that would normally have consumed her utmost interest failed to grasp her attention. The time seemed like it had stopped, frozen in a scene, a lone white figure standing up in a shore, waiting for something she alone could know.

Then the tides rose, carrying the water toward her. First she felt it at her feet, slowing but decisively rising up, splashing around her ankles. She bowed her head, and watched little bubbles around her feet, and a smile appeared on her lips.

Slowly she bent down and passed a hand through the water, then watched as it slipped through her fingers in slow motion, each drop bringing up a memento from the past, frozen inside a bubble. Snapshots rose; some were nice, some were bad, some simply melancholic; She and Bran splashed water at each other in seashore, with laughter and smiles, their legs and hands only dirty with wet sand, not with blood. The bubble stopped and hung in the air, turning into crystal, then fell on the surface, broken into million pieces. A scream echoed in the dark, inhumane in pain, and for a split of second she couldn't understand she was the source of pain. Her eyes welled, tears followed, then tides rose even further, beating her. She tumbled down in the water, struggling through the sudden waves that were swallowing her further in the depths...water slipped into her mouth, her lungs fired, she couldn't breathe, no breath left... No breath left... And if only she could close her eyes, and accept her fate, accept the fact that she couldn't win...That no one could ever win...

_Why do you insist, Lauren? Why don't you let it go? You know you can't win._

And someday they were all going to die...

Her eyes snapped open, but for a moment all she saw was light, the oppressive beams of sunlight blinding all the other senses. Her heart beating a staccato in her chest, Lauren closed her eyes again and understood that a new day had just begun.

And that she had fallen asleep in John's bed, once again. And again, it had ended with the same dream; her drowning into the sea just before the break of dawn, then jerking into consciousness just when the new day began. The options were still same, too, either going back to sleep, or carefully but swiftly sliding herself out of his grip and slipping out of his house like a ghost. The next day they would pretend like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed, snap at each other, trade a few barbs, all while getting shot at. It was a game that they had crafted to perfection, the skills honed with perfect precision.

Except that she had made a rookie mistake. No, falling asleep wasn't the first mistake. No, the first mistake was actually going to _the bed_. For the first two month they hadn't managed to make that far, even before they crossed the threshold, clothes shifted, bodies tangled, they had been already at the second base, or the third... she hadn't been surely counting. And perhaps that had been her first mistake. A rather small tactical one, but she had become accustomed to John Reese's life enough to know that they were the worst kinds.

It had started like how it could have been; as an act of desperation, or simply for reaching out for some mercy. One night, two strangers in the night, no plans for tomorrow.

He had pulled her close to him and kissed her, without a word, both knew they had passed the talking stage long time ago. His mouth was hungry, and persistent, like the rest of his body, almost in a frenzy, but they weren't just fucking. Though they weren't making love either; they were somewhere in the middle, hovering above the line, just grasping to take whatever they could get, not caring what they could give up in the meantime. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

She silently laughed, acerbic in bitter irony. That had been what it was, not a simple fuck or making love, but a desperate measure for a desperate time. And it should have ended there, just after right they had finished and she had walked out, not looking back, it should have ended there. That was the window of opportunity, the last exit before the bridge, but they hadn't taken it, and now they were drifting through repercussions.

Giving out a silent breath, slowly she held the arm across her waist before she did her usual gig, and left before the sun up in the sky. She half twisted herself to one side carefully, her fingers still holding his arm then something happened. Actually two things happened; first he slid closer to her back then tightened his arm around her waist.

Her heart stopped, her thoughts coming to a halt. He didn't speak, not even a word, though the gesture didn't leave anything to any deliberation. She knew he wasn't asleep, despite everything John Reese wasn't simply a man who could do something like this unconsciously in his sleep. He wasn't speaking but in his way he was asking her to stay.

And that was a terrible, a terrible idea. A bigger mistake than those they had already foolishly committed. That was the crossing the line, the point of no return. As long as it was night, even at the break of the dawn, they were still safe; two strangers in the night, no plans for tomorrow. But if tomorrow would come, who would know what they would become?

Surely it wasn't the first time she had asked that question; she had asked to herself many times who they were now, what they had become, but she could never manage to answer those questions and this time was no exception.

At first, she had thought of him like in that old man in the story, a new sea star rescued each day, and she was the youngling that helped him. Soon she had understood neither of them had ever been that naïve. With Carter, and his platonic feelings, she had thought of him like Odysseus, trying to find his own Ithaca, but then she had understood there wasn't any Ithaca for them, no happily-ever-afters, and even though he might have been Odysseus, Carter was never Penelope, who couldn't even recognize Odysseus when he was back. No, Jocelyn Carter had recognized each of them, and she got killed because of that.

Still, John wasn't Odysseus. The only persona he could be was Sisyphus, who rolled his boulder up in the mountain only to watch it tumble back down, struggling forever in his infinite cruel damnation. And that was John, and his endless tragedy, struggling forever for a fight that they never—ever could win.

_Why do you insist, Lauren? Why don't you let it go? You know you can't win._


	2. Chapter I

**PART ONE: Persona**

_**Chapter I - Coincidentia Oppositorum**_

* * *

><p>September, 2011<p>

In retrospect, Lauren would have expected 20 September 2011 had started somewhat unordinary; some sort of sign, a hint, a clue, something, but there was nothing unusual, just another bright day for the New York's finest.

Her heels barely touched the muddy soil beneath as she ran after Stills in the barrow pit area, her fingers tight around her Glock, only one thought in her mind. Sometimes, despite all its perks, she really, really, really hated this job. She had just gotten her shoes a week ago, and six in the morning was damn too early to chase after some punks who thought they would step around Stills' turf, and she hadn't even gotten herself a cup of coffee.

Adequate to their stupidity, one of the punks, still running, pivoted his body to side, and shot directly at her. Cursing, she threw herself down, and tumbled down over one of the pits, and landed on her face on the ground. Another curse rolling over her tongue, she pulled herself up along the ridge, and craning her neck up, peeked above.

Another shot whizzed just above her head. She quickly bowed her head, lifted her arm up, and shot at the direction she had just seen. That was odd, the usual gang punks usually didn't know how to fare with fire arms, at least with this kind of precision, but the way they aimed certainly suggested some kind of training. Obviously, looking for greener pastures, Stills had been enlarging his social circles.

Just great. "I thought we were going after some idiots on steroids!" she snapped in a curtly pitched voice to the bald detective who had just tumbled down in the pit next to her, "Not champions of NRA high school competition!"

Stills steadied himself along to the ridge, too, just beside her, his eyes glinting in the thrill of danger, and violence. Just fucking great. She had seen this before. Stills was pissed off, more than usual, and that meant...well, different kind of troubles.

"Don't matter," he grunted over the rounds of shots, "soon they will be out of ammo. Then we will take them down."

Down. "Sounds like a plan," she retorted, as she raised her arm up for another round, to get their ammo finished, as her—partner kindly suggested, and shifted a quick look at the man in question, "As long as it doesn't involve anyone permanently down," she added sotto voce.

Over the gunshots, she heard a pungent shrill of laughter. "That's what I like with you, sweetheart," Stills said, just before the punks' ammo ran out, "Your ability to say things like this with a straight face." Then he jumped out of ridge, his arm already raised up in the air, already aimed.

As the gunshot echoed in the sudden silence, she closed her eyes.

Perhaps her day wasn't so much usual. Slowly, she climbed up out of the pit, and walked toward Stills, who crouched over his latest felony, already searching through his pockets. "Goddamn Russians," he hissed over the body, "they would never learn."

Her eyes traveled around the area, out of an automatic custom, to spot any sign of danger or threat. No prying eyes, no hidden partners who would want to take revenge. A lonely soul that had met with his end at the end of a muddy grave. Before she knew what she was doing, the words left her mouth. "You didn't have to do this."

Stills' attention snapped at her, his bald head titled aside as his eyes pierced through hers; cold blue against the dark brown. "Keep saying things like this," he said with the coldness of his eyes in his tone, edged with a veiled warning, "and one day I will really start to believe you mean them."

She kept his glare, as she tucked her gun inside the holster on her belt, and jumped over the dead body. "You know how much I hate the paper work," she said before she turned around and started walking on the way out.

* * *

><p>She was the one who had ended up with the paper work, of course. Her fingers hitting the keys furiously, she typed the situation and their defense. The task was tricky, but not bothersome. By happenstance, she was at her best when it came to lying by omission. In this age, bold-faced lies never worked. Everything you did was recorded and collected, everything stuck. But truth was always elusive, and misinterpretations were a part of life. At the end, everyone made mistakes, and in their cases all it needed was usually a bit of exclusionary detailing.<p>

Unfortunately, for that, Stills had seen her skills. Her fingers hit the keys again furiously.

_"There is no starting over, Mr. Tompkins. Everything we do is recorded and collected." She shook the papers in her hand. "I can't get rid of these. Everything sticks. Everything is stuck." She left a breath out. "I am stuck."_

_"Then find yourself a way out."_

The piercing tone of her phone pulled her out of the memory. Her eyes shifted down, and she saw Stills ID on the screen. "What?" she answered, her tone almost rasping with the bitter taste of a particular mistake regarding to the man at the other side of the line.

"Are you done there, sweetie pie?" Stills asked without any care of her tone, "You're expected to be sitting on the chair at 1 P.M at the City Hall."

"I know," she shot back, "_I_ made the date."

There was a sudden pause over the line, then Stills asked, his voice finally sober, "Is there a problem, Lauren? No seriously," he went on, "I'm getting sick of your attitude."

She stood up from her desk, and walked toward the toilet. She entered one of the stalls, and locked the door. "The problem..." she hissed to the phone, getting it closer to her mouth, "What I'm getting sick of, Stills, is cleaning after you," she said. "You've become restless, and greedy, and soon one of the IAB bastards will get on our trail!"

From the other side came a slick laughter, clearly not caring. "Yeah, you must be very afraid of that prospect."

She drew the phone even closer to her lips. "I assure you, Detective Stills, on that prospect I won't be the only one who is gonna be afraid."

"Careful, Fusco, careful," Stills rasped back, "We've been friends for a long time. I'd hate to see it to become something else."

"Glad that we're on the same page then," she told him with a final retort, "See you in City Hall."

* * *

><p>There were the ways to appear in the court, looking all professional, pristine, and neat. This time, she wasn't anywhere close to that look. She had pinned her hair up tightly in a professional bun before she had left the precinct, but a few dark auburn strands had already started to fall off over her face. Her make-up was still intact, aside a few smudges, but her lipstick had already gone. There was no way to get rid of the wrinkles on her shirt after the natural work-out-session in the morning unless she had gone to home for a change of clothes, but there wasn't time. The same thing went for the ankle boots she had worn too, muddied and dusted, it was no way close to pristine and neat, let alone professional.<p>

Still, it should have done the trick.

She had done this dance many times, excelled it to perfection, a few loose...strands wouldn't stop her now, either. It was just that...she still remembered their conversation just a few hours back. Her eyes drifted over the sea of people, and she spotted the bald head she was looking for, and icy blue eyes that shaded every emotion off behind. Then she smiled, and turned to Diane Hansen.

"Detective Fusco, when you interviewed Mr. Pope, what did he tell you in his defense?" the assistant district attorney asked as she turned back and picked up a paper from her desk.

Lauren stopped smiling, and answered, "He said that if he'd have shot the poor bastard, he would have shot him in the head." Her eyes briefly slid to Stills. "Quote, "same as I always do", unquote. He said he wouldn't have left him there half-dead, blubbering for his girlfriend." Hansen turned to her, her eyes showing off of the surprise she surely must have been feeling as Stills left the court room.

She knew she shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have given them any reason or any opening, but they needed to understand that her strings could be pulled up only to a certain extent.

After the session, outside the court room, Hansen found her before Stills. "Detective..." Hansen called her as she approached to her, her steps quick but determined. She stopped and waited for the blond woman, as her eyes picked up a man in a suit she had seen in the court room. He was tall and dark, and well, mysterious as the definitions might go. He stood a few feet away from them...almost lingering. Possibly one of the mob's Harvard monkeys... With the suit he was wearing, he surely seemed to fill the bill. But Pope's gang, or whatever had left of them couldn't afford a Harvard Man. Or that little brother of Pope... "You went a little off script in your testimony," Hansen started as soon as she had come to her side, "You never told me about that conversation, and it could clear Pope's name."

Well, that wasn't what she had expected, but apparently Hansen wanted to play her role to the hilt. She turned her attention back to the assistant DA and gave up a little shrug. "What's it matter," she asked with a small derisive smile, "We got the guy."

Hansen walked to her closer, almost frustrated. "It matters because it's my job to make absolutely sure that the wrong people don't go to jail. Do you remember?"

She looked at the blond woman almost in wonder, and shook her head. She started walking toward the exit. "Pardon me," she said, slightly hitting over her shoulder as she passed her, "I thought we were on the same team."

Somehow she shouldn't have been surprised by it, by none of it. After all she had always known that the best way of being a criminal in this city was to be in the law enforcement. Outside the Hall, she walked to one of the close-by diners to grab a sandwich, and finally her first cup of coffee. Then she decided she needed something stronger. She spotted the pub at the corner, and walked into it. It had a warm and friendly atmosphere, but more importantly it was empty, aside few possible alcoholics getting their fix. She sat on a long bar stool at the empty corner, and ordered a scotch. "You shouldn't drink on the clock, detective," Stills' voice grated behind her back before she brought the glass her lips.

Smiling a facetious smile, she took a sip as the bald man sat on the stool next to her. He waved his hand first to the barmaid, then toward her glass. "The same."

The red-haired woman brought his drink. "To the breaking of law then...?" he asked as he lifted his glass up.

Without a word, she lifted hers up slightly too, and finished what was left from it. Then Stills leaned forward on his stool toward her. "Why did you do it, Lauren?" he asked. The words seemed like he was trying to find an answer, to understand. For the first time in a long time she had known him he sounded almost...genuine. "That stuff on the chair..." He shook his head. "Rebelling isn't your style, Lauren." He stopped and looked at her, but continued when she didn't speak. "I thought we had a deal. I know you're not happy with our...current predicament, but—" Taking another sip from his drink, he gave her another look, "You've always known I'm gonna need your assistance."

She let out a sigh, and set down her empty glass on the counter. "I know," she said, "And you'll have it. But you have to stop playing games." She leaned forward to him, too. "This is our second chance, James," she told him, "Do you remember why you started this?" She did, even though she wasn't sure if he did any more. His mother had been in hospital, and he couldn't have paid the bills, so...the answer was out there, ready for him to grasp it, if only he could take a leap and grasped it. And taking a leap, he did. Now, his mother had been death for a long time, and she wasn't even sure the last time he had visited her grave. She had made a mistake, she couldn't have seen it before, some things could have only been seen in retrospect; the present tense was always too big, too foggy. Once she had thought of as an act of desperation in reality had been only a ledge to get him that courage to make that leap. In truth, all James Stills had needed was a reason for his fall of indecency, just a push over the cliff, and the rest was the rule of gravity.

And her mistake was that not seeing it that way, failing to understand that the man he had killed at first to get money for his mother's medicine hadn't been different than the man he had killed this morning just for...practice.

And, as of the moment, there wasn't anything she could do about it.

_"I am stuck."_

_"Then find yourself a way out."_

Time, she told herself, as they walked out of the pub, there is a time for everything. So outside the pub, they stood up, and looked at each other.

She smiled at him, and held her hand out to him. "Truce?"

And he took it. "Truce."

That moment she knew both had come to a decision. When this all ended, only one of them was going to live to tell the tale.

* * *

><p>It was happening. She wasn't sure how to name it, but she could feel it. In the air, in their smell, in their talks, in the tense glances they shared, in the way they made Hansen wait for them. Then she saw him, the same man in the court room, tall, dark and mysterious, getting the full automatic machine gun hung over his shoulder ready. Then she knew it. Silently, she walked back toward the dead-end behind her, and stayed hidden in the shadows. Their uninvited guest raised his weapon at the railings of the fire escape ladder next to his left, and got in the position as Hansen started calling Stills. She took careful steps, her heels never making any noise on the concrete. It was a trick she had learned early in her days; just a thin layer of rubber under the heels and you could walk as swiftly as barefoot, no click of heels.<p>

She pushed the nylon hangings over the entrance of the dead-end, but noticed the hesitance in the man's posture when he saw Hansen greeting Stills. He stayed rigid for a moment, his back startled, and lowered his gun. She stopped in her tracks too, as confused as he.

"Are you gonna keep me waiting, Stills?" Hansen asked a few feet away from them, the playing her part to the hilt obviously forgotten. "We don't have time for this."

"What's your problem?" Stills asked, with the same temperate he always had, "Pope is dead."

Hansen shook her head in frustration. "The problem is Wheeler, you idiot. He knows."

Just a fraction, the man reacted a bit, still shocked but she could see he was getting out of it. Not wasting any more time, she jumped on him, and propped her Glock against his temple as she tied her other arm tightly around his neck. "Well, hello there," she whispered over his ear, as he let a breath out. She laughed. "I keep seeing you around, sweetheart," she said, and lowered her voice further into a purr, "are you lost?"

The man didn't answer, nor did he react, only his hand slightly moved down toward his pants. "Don't be smart," she warned him with a rasp, tightening her grip, and propping the gun further against his temple. She took a step back, clutched his arm, and moved back to the dead-end. She turned him around, and pushed him back at the wall. She walked onto him with herself, too as with one hand, she loosened the hatch of machine gun on his belt, and propped her gun this time under his chin. The heated tones of Hansen and Stills reached to her, and she slightly craned her neck to left as the same time the man made a move. Quickly she turned and pushed his head up with the tip of her gun.

"I said," she hissed, "don't be smart." She drew closer to him, and lifted her head up to his. "You were surprised with Hansen over there? Why?" she asked, letters forming deep in her throat, demanding answers. The man didn't reply. She tried again. "Why are you following us?"

His eyes lowered down, and briefly held hers. What she saw there for a split of second hesitated her, her body losing the smugness in her posture, then she understood how close she had become to him in the heat of moment. Then everything happened too fast. One moment, her gun was pointed at his neck, the next it was up in the air, his hand had tightened around her wrist as the other tightened around her neck, pressing on her trachea. With the pain, she dropped the gun, and tried to make a sound, for help but only things she had managed was let out a deep gurgle of "help". She tried to kick herself out of his grip but his elbow hit her abdomen, and she doubled in pain. But before he could reach her gun and take it, Stills and his gang, tagged with Hansen were already there, their guns pointed at him.

The man stopped, releasing his grip on her neck, and stood still with hands up in the air in the universal sign of peace. Over the end of his barrel, Stills looked at her. "What the fuck is going on here?"

She corrected herself, trying a smile. "We got ourselves a groupie," she rasped through her hurt throat. She bent down and took her gun, as her feet swept the machine gun away from him. "Heavily armed, too." She walked to the man, and kicked the back of his knee. Without even a grunt, he fell on his knees.

Stills turned to Hansen. "You know this guy?"

Hansen shook her head, as she carefully got closer to him again to search his pockets. "No," Hansen answered.

She pulled his wallet out, and read his license. She showed it to Stills. "You're not law enforcement," Stills declared the obvious. He turned over his boys, and they shared a laugh. "Cartel finally grew some stones? Send somebody to take care of us?" he asked particularly to no one, his tone terribly delighted. After a moment, she understood that he found the fact that the Cartel finally sending someone after him was a certificate for his...achievement. Though she wasn't so much sure about that. If the Cartel was sending someone after them, he would have surely known about Hansen as well. "Who the hell are you, man?" he asked again, when the man didn't respond.

But this time, he did. He lifted his head up, and looked at Stills, with –she could swear—a smirk, then said, "Concerned...third party?"

Stills punched him in the face. Hansen looked between them, and she shook her head again, as if she was disgusted with all of them. "Take care of him. And, uh, get rid of Wheeler tonight. Make it look clean." She turned to leave, but after her second step, she stopped and turned back again. "Hey, Stills. You screw this up, I won't let it get to me. I'll take care of you just like I took care of Pope. I can look after myself. You know that."

For a moment, she wondered if their assistant DA was digging in her own grave. The look Stills gave after her back certainly confirmed that. He turned to her. "Well, since you found him, he's all yours," he told him with a smile. Apparently their truce wasn't going to long live. "Drop him in Oyster Bay, and meet with us at Wheeler's apartment."

He then turned and walked away, his gang on his tails.

Breathing out, she took a few steps back, and raised her gun at him from a certain safety distance. "It's just you and me then again, huh?"

The maniac smiled, he actually smiled at her. "Why didn't you tell them I'm not one of the Cartel?"

"Why bother?" she asked back, "It isn't like that I know who you are, Mr. Concerned Third Party."

"I'm the one who would get you out from under Stills' thumb, Lauren," he answered, "but if you insist, you can call me Mr. Reese."

She raised her eyebrow at that. "And who says I need such a thing, Mr. Reese?"

"I've been watching you, Lauren—" he told her with the obliviousness and smugness of a man who had a secret that only he knew, his husky tone of his voice adequate of the secret he was sharing, "You're not like them. Stills and others...they enjoy what they're doing...you're different." Her eyebrow rose even further. "I don't think you particularly care," he added in a whisper, "But you definitely don't enjoy yourself."

She shook her head, but instead the ire she felt, she only let a smile appeared on her lips. "You don't know anything about me."

"I _know_ enough to know that Stills is forcing your hand," he retorted.

She smiled even further. "Then you don't know much of anything—" She sniffed in contempt. "Even in a child in the bureau would tell you about it if you know how to ask."

"Whatever it is—" he said back, "I can make it go away."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"I can stop Stills," he told that with a certainty that made her look at him sharply.

Without moving an inch, she looked back at him, then tilted her head up. "For good?" she demanded.

The same smirk tugged at the corner of his lips again. "Usually."

She smiled at him sweetly, softly laughing. "Perhaps you can." She then stopped, asked, "How I can know that you won't stop me for good, either when I lower my gun?"

He shook his head at her. "You can't—" She opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak. "If I really wanted to stop you, Lauren, that gun in your hand wouldn't have stopped me," he said matter-of-factly, "I thought you already got it."

Her arm still stiffly pointed at him, she reached her back with the other one, and took her taser gun out. "So you'd understand me—" She threw the cunning weapon at him, "when I ask you to use this on yourself."

He caught the taser gun, and looked at her. "Still not trusting me?"

She flashed a roguish smile at him, lips not parting. "Can't blame a girl for not believing a man's nice words." Her smile vanished before she continued, "I assume you know how to find Wheeler's house?"

He nodded in affirmative. "Then, I guess I'll see you there, Mr. Reese."

* * *

><p>All in honesty, she didn't really expect him to show up in the alley next to Wheeler's house, but still she knew he would. The experience was so bizarre she couldn't put in any perspective that was even remotely logical, and all logic and reason were telling her that she had been played but still, she knew. She couldn't explain it, but she knew. She just didn't understand; didn't understand how he knew all those things, but didn't know about Hansen, but most importantly why he was caring.<p>

"I half expected you not to show up," she told him when he appeared next her out of thin air.

"I made you a promise," he only said, not even looking at her, his eyes solely fixed at the ex-con that Stills and Azarello were getting out of their trunk. "Who is that guy?" he asked.

Her eyes skipped to him before she turned her attention there too. "That's the poor soul that I'd need to frame up for murder if you failed to do what you promised me."

He reached out back, and took his gun out. He pulled the safety back with a swift motion. "Let's get started then."

He made a move, but before he started walking away, she couldn't help herself. "I gave you a change to disappear," she said in whisper, her eyes fix ahead of her, "gave you a way out. Why didn't you take it?" She finally returned to him. "Why did you return, Mr. Reese?"

He lowered his gun beside his hip, and looked at it. He then walked to her. "Today you sat on the chair in the court room, and almost said that Pope didn't kill his friends, knowing that it would surely have put you at odds with Stills. Why did you do it, Lauren?" He turned her question back to her then leaned toward her, his piercing blue eyes searching hers. She turned hers away. "Because you still knew it was the right thing. That's how I knew you were different than them." Her head snapped at him. "And this is why I won't—stop you, either," he paused for a second, "not like them."

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back, but it was too late. His hand rose against her neck, and before she knew what was happening, the current from her own taser gun started circling through her body.

* * *

><p>The next thing she knew, she was back in her apartment in Upper West Side, lying on her bed, the only missing piece of her was her gun. That was problematic, she couldn't even guess what kind of misdeeds the damn bastard did with it, but first things came first.<p>

Quickly she got up from the bed, and changed her clothes with another pair of clean dark leggings, and a fitted shirt, and attached her badge on her belt. Her hand stopped over her holster. She couldn't even remember the last time she went out without her trusty Glock. Without it, she felt almost naked, defenseless and armless. The other mouse gun she had didn't give her the same kind of security that Glock always easily provided but a girl one had to deal with the hand she got dealt. Hastily she threw herself out of her apartment, and drove to her precinct with even more haste.

She knew it had happened even before she set a foot inside. The whole building was in uproar, people running or just talking in clusters. She joined one of them, asked over her cup of coffee, "Jesus, what's buzz?" Her eyes traveled around in fake wonder, "What happened?"

"Didn't you hear the news?" one of her co-workers asked back, his eyes hawkishly skeptical. It was the first tip, and she clearly read it. Everyone knew—at least suspected her collaboration with Stills, so the skepticism wasn't any surprise.

She kept up the appearances, shook her head, lifting her shoulders up in an indifferent way she had perfected over the years. "It was my day off yesterday."

"It's Stills," the man answered. Whether he believed her words or not couldn't be read from his posture, and she didn't care. She had stopped worrying who believed her and who not a long time ago because despite everyone thought of, she had understood there were only two types of cops; not bad ones or good ones; but the ones who cared, and the ones who didn't. And as long as they didn't care, they could think her of as the next "Mother Theresa" or the next "Devil Incarnate." She simply didn't care. "Bad business," the detective went on with something very akin to glee, falling head-to-toe into the category "not-caring." "He was running a gang business with one of the assistant DA—" He turned to his other company, "what was her name?"

"Diana Hansen."

"Hansen?" she asked with a bit surprise, with a bit of the same kind of skepticism he had just performed on her behalf, "The woman who put the whole Basin gang behind the bars? The same Hansen?"

"The very same," the other confirmed.

"Well, she certainly would find some love in, then," she commented, then asked, "What about Stills? Is he caught, too?"

"He's..." he answered, "well, he's disappeared. They couldn't find him. I guess he's on the run."

She couldn't help it; a smile broke on her lips. "I'm sure he will turn up soon," she said, before she walked out of the precinct.

There were still pieces that couldn't fill in, but her day had started to get much better. She knew there would be many problems, and there would be other officers who were going to "care" but as of the moment, she decided to focus on the present, and enjoyed the victory as long as it lasted.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. "Enjoying your day, detective?" the familiar husky voice greeted her as soon as she got inside her car.

Her back stiffened, she only lifted her head up, and her eyes found his on her visor mirror. Carelessly, he was lounging on her back seat.

She didn't speak, so in her stead, he did. "I was worried about you," he started, "I know the after effects of the taser gun can be very nasty."

"We're even, I guess," she said back in monotones tones, cast off stone on her seat.

"Not even close, detective."

She narrowed her eyes. "My gun," she bit off, "Can I have it back?"

On the mirror, she saw him raising himself up a bit, his hand reaching backward. "I needed some additional fire power, Lauren," he said as he handed it back to her.

"The next time, steal from somewhere else," she shot back, and asked, "What happened to Stills?" His eyebrows rose. She let out a sigh. "People say he's—disappeared."

"Well," he said, leaning back again, "He's in the trunk."

She snapped back at him, her hand clutching her head seat tightly, the dread turning her stomach into a ball of acid. "What?" she hissed through her teeth.

He gave her a smile, not reaching to his eyes. "You see, I kept my promise, but uh, I had to shoot him with your gun." She closed her eyes, letting a deep breath out. "So..." he drawled out, as she turned back, and leaned back on her seat, her eyes still closed. "So..." he repeated, this time actually with a soft laugh, "I suggest you a trip to...Oyster bay."

She opened her eyes, but this time even bothered to find him on the mirror. "So that's why you offered help?" she asked, her eyes fixed ahead, not believing that she had fallen into that trap for the second time. "You got me out from under Stills' thumb, only so you could be there yourself," she said, words harsh in sharp irony.

He shrugged. "That's the different interpretation of events," he said, "but accurate. I think I'll stick around here for a while, Lauren, and I need a friend," he added almost airily, but a second later his voice lost the airiness as his face turned stiff. He then leaned forward on the back seat, and moved closer to her. She felt his lips hovering above her ear before he spoke next. "I let you live because you could be useful to me," he whispered in her ear, "But if you disappoint me," his eyes slid toward hers and captured them, "just even once, I'm going to kill you, too." He halted for a second. "I don't particularly like killing people, Lauren, but I assure you I'm very good at it." Then pulling back, he opened the door, and got out, "I'll see you around."

And his last words sounded like an oath.

* * *

><p><em>Okay, as you see I'm doing it from the start, but I will skip some episodes. This chapter was harder than the others because it was the first time, and well, it was only done by Lauren's POV, so with the next chapters we will see others too. I don't know, this might take a while. The plots are huge, so many things to do. I can only do the second episode in three chapters. <em>

_This isn't my first time with a gender-bender, but this is my first with a re-write of a TV Show. So I'd like to see what you think. So please, review if you believe it's worthy. Thanks._


	3. Chapter II

_This is the second episode of the show (Ghosts) in three parts. And, I forgot to mention at the first chapters, but the story is beta-read by my dearest author/friend **persevera. **She's got so good stories in many different fandoms, I strongly recommend them._

_Enjoy._

_**Chapter II – "Dealing with it"**_

* * *

><p>Two days later, hidden behind a corner, John Reese was in front of a low-rise walk up apartment where W 133 Street crossed Amsterdam Avenue. Lauren Fusco appeared behind her door, and left her safe haven to cool another "hard" work day off before the sun set down. Dressed in sports attire, her head hidden under her hoodie, she was already running towards Riverside Park. As soon as she lost behind the opposite corner, John moved away from his post and went toward her apartment. The three stories building didn't have any doorman at the front, so he walked into it quickly, without any problem at sight, but rather in his ear.<p>

"Do I need to remind you that your assistance might be needed in Bill Garner's office?" Finch asked, his tone slightly taking a hint on irritation. It was a kind of thing that he had gotten used to hearing around him. For some reason, people always seemed to get irritated in his company.

"Don't worry," he said, climbing the stairs to the upper floor two at a time, "He won't leave his office until eight." Just before his sentence finished, he arrived at his destination, and stopped in front of the detective's door, and inspected her locks carefully. "He already got a date with his lover," he continued, as he seized the Baldwin up and down, feeling the curt edges of the lock under the tip of his finger, "and the hired goons are in the waiting. As of the moment, Bill is safe and sound."

Finch made an uncommitted sound, but didn't bother with an actual reply as John fished out a long steel piece out of his jacket and pushed it inside the door. The Baldwin was a good lock, with good quality bolts and all, but he was simply better. He pushed the pins around and pulled the tongue with the short steel further in until he heard the familiar "click." Overall, not ten seconds after he had started he let himself in.

He was correct in his first assumption; he got it at the first step. Lauren's house really seemed like her safe haven. The house was much more...exquisite inside than outside, scarcely decorated with a few but very comfortable looking furniture; modern and elegant in a refined way. He walked around quickly to get a better feel of it, and after his first tour he was fairly...impressed with her taste in the decoration business.

When his appreciation faded, he got to the work. The house was registered to a false company under the name of Desna Rental, but a quick search had determined that the company was nothing than empty shell, and the man—or rather the woman—behind the curtain was no one other than the dirty detective he had in his pocket. She was smart, as he had known it from the first moment, smart enough buy herself a house in this part of the city where the rents weren't all too high neither too classy but enough to pass as respectful as a good neighborhood, with its close ties to Columbia University and its rather intellectual community.

Her chosen preference for accommodation was a bit of surprise at first, especially thinking of the life style she had been pursuing for a time, but when he remembered what Finch had said earlier about her, and when he saw the library at the corner of one-bedroom apartment, things started making a bit more sense.

Well, Finch would have appreciated it, John decided as he took an old copy of Pope, and turned its back in his hand as he narrowed his eyes at it. "Roll it with me again, Finch," he called his new—partner, "You said she was dropped out of Columbia, right?" He paused for a second, as his eyes moved to the right side of the library where a number of books in Law decorated the upper shelves, "In Law?"

"Correct," Finch confirmed, and started to retell, "Lauren Fusco. Born at 10 August 1979, orphaned at three." He paused for a second. "Moved to the system but lived only with one foster parents—Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, in Bronx, until she left it for Columbia Law School." He paused again, commented with a tone that made John raise his eyebrow, "She was luckier than the most."

For a moment, he considered to dwell on the comment, but then let it go for another time. Finch was a mystery that John had decided to solve on his own terms. "Any reports of abuse?" he asked instead, placing the book its place.

"None of it," Finch answered, "The Tompkins fostered three others too, but nothing was raised. Leonard Thompkins died almost a decade ago—"

He interrupted Finch, "Of natural causes?"

"Yes," Finch affirmed, "Of cancer."

"Mrs. Tompkins still takes care of a young man; Brandon Richardson, age 15," Finch said for the last then halted as he only heard hitting key sounds. "She started at Colombia in 1995 with the courtesy of an athletic scholarship, but dropped it at her last year."

"Why?" John asked. So running was an old habit for her. "Is there anything in the records?"

"Well, for one thing, she lost her scholarship because she cheated," Finch answered, "there are mentions of a doping scandal."

He laughed. "Old habits die hard, huh?"

Finch didn't comment on that, but instead said, "Her records seem to be clean, but I'm digging further to see if there is anything out of the place or tampered. If there is really something that Detective Stills was using against her as leverage," he continued, the suspicion clear in his voice, "we will find it."

Fishing the little plastic marker out of his pocket, he nodded, with extreme certainty. "There is." In those regards, he scarcely got wrong.

Again, Finch chose not to comment, but asked, "Are you done with placing the bugs, Mr. Reese?"

He placed the bug in his hand on the top shelves, behind the thickest book. "Just started."

"Your plan seems rather—presumptive," Finch hesitantly said in his ear.

He shrugged in response, even though he knew the other man couldn't see it...probably. He turned around the house, placing another two in the places that weren't in the open too much, but also weren't in hidden too much, either. The trick was that to get her believe their authenticity. Too open in the sight would get her suspicious as she was evidently smart, and too much hidden would get them overlooked. No, Lauren was supposed to find them, believing she could find them by all herself so that she could feel at ease enough to behave like she always did while another set of too-well-hidden bugs continued to record everything she did.

"Mr. Reese," Finch called him in a few minutes after, just when he placed the round listening device inside her wardrobe, between a very bad knock off Louis Vuitton and two original Chanel. Appearances, it was all about appearances. Keep them always up on the front, and no one would care to look behind. "Our number is about to leave his office," Finch informed him.

He closed the wardrobe's door, and hastily left the apartment. Quickly he stepped down the stairs, and hailed a taxi back to the midtown. He got out of the car, throwing a fifty bill, and ran inside the office building in the Garment District. He saw the elevator's door closing as Bill Garner stepped inside with the other two at his heel. "Hold it," he called, half-running, half pushing his body over the already closing doors, then slipped inside it. He threw a half smile at Bill. "Almost missed it."

The door closed.

The man in the suit smiled.

Appearances, it was all about them.

* * *

><p>The next morning John was on the prowl. When he had woken up, he had found himself bristling with an anticipation that emitted off of every pore in his body, the event of the last night in the elevator still fresh in his memory. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this, and if he had to be honest with himself he had missed it. The feeling was hard to describe, more profound than excitement, and nothing as frivolous as thrill seeking, but it had always been there, hidden just under the skin, the constant buzz in the ear. Perhaps, it was just a side effect of having a purpose.<p>

Granted, his first investigation had become somewhat "inconclusive", but the day had just started, and unveiling the mystery behind his current...contractor wasn't the only mystery John was going to resolve that day. Leaning against the fence along the pier, John shifted his eyes at the new mystery in question, and looked at the young smiling girl in the pictures. So young, so happy she looked in the picture smiling for a moment John really didn't want to think she was dead, but still alive at somewhere. Her number had picked up. The odds were that it was just a glitch or something like that in the machine, but still he hoped.

"This is the last place Theresa Whitaker was seen alive," standing next to him stiffly, the eccentric billionaire started debriefing him, his eyes fixed ahead toward Bowery Bay, voice bare of emotion despite the tragedy it was going to unravel, "Two years ago, her father, Grant, takes the family for a weekend sail. No one comes home."

He frowned, shuffling through the documents in the file, "He was a real estate developer."

"Market crashed," Finch explained further, his eyes moving toward him briefly, "He was upside down on 14 properties. According to the police, he shot his wife and kids then turned the gun on himself."

His eyebrows drew further into his frown. "Says here they found the bodies."

"Just the parents and the 18 year old son," Finch said, "Theresa's body was never recovered."

"'Presumed dead.'" he read from the file, and nodded after a pause, "Well, it's a reasonable assumption." He looked at the billionaire. "Are you sure this isn't a sort of—mistake?" he asked.

Finch shook his head with a certainty that made him wonder even more about his—contractor. The faith he had for his machine seemed like absolute, never wavering, never questioned. That was enough disturbing as it was, but thinking of Finch, who had all of that paranoia and control issues, having this much faith in something, anything was even more disturbing. He knew possibly because it really took one to know one. "Police only see what they choose to look for," the eccentric man answered in his adamant faith like John had expected, "The machine sees almost everything. If the girl's number has come up, she must be alive."

He was still skeptical, though. "Then why hasn't she shown up by now? With the police or a relative?"

"I don't know," the other man confessed, "But if the machine is right and she's still alive, she won't be for long. Better find her."

John thought about it a second. There seemed to be only way to understand all of this. More information. "We need a police report on this," he said, closing the file in his hand, then smiled a half of a smile, "I'll talk to my new friend in the town."

* * *

><p>His new friend really looked like she was already adapted to the changes in her life. Even though she was afraid that people might start looking for her, no one could say it from the way she carried herself. She walked in the corridor in that devil-may-care attitude that he had always seen her before; head high up smugly, shoulders defiantly squared, the whole life a challenge. He had to give her that, John decided; she knew exactly how to keep up the appearances. Or she was just quickly adapted. From the restroom he had hidden inside, he reached out and caught her at shoulders as she passed by. Even before she could open her mouth and started screaming, he twirled her around dragging inside, then threw her against the restroom's ceramic wall.<p>

Her eyes widened only for a moment when he saw her, his hand stiffly pressed on her chest to keep her up against the wall. "Hello, Lauren."

The shock lasted only a second after that, and she quickly recuperated, a familiar suave smile appearing on her lips. "And just when I thought you've forgotten all about me," she greeted him, a mocking petulance in her voice.

He smiled back at her. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."

She laughed. "Ah," she sighed dramatically, "Ah, a renaissance man—" She tilted her head aside, her eyes hawkishly prying at his, "You're full of surprises, Mr. Reese," she commented with a mock of fascination, then her tone got stiff. "How did you get inside?"

Her lips pulled up for a fraction as he showed at her the badge he had pinned at the back of his jacket. "Took it from your pal Stills, before I killed him...with your gun, and you dropped him in the Oyster Bay," he reminded her with the same mocking.

At that, she laughed silently, but he could see the strain in her tones as she fought over a grimace. Then she let out a breath, and fixed her eyes at him. "How can I be of assistance, Mr. Reese?" she asked with a tone of perfect professionalism. It was clear that this wasn't the first time she had done this dance, at whatever strings Stills had gotten her, her ties had been very strict. Finch had better find her connections to the dead detective fast.

"I need you pull up a file for me," he answered.

Just as he had expected, she didn't even blink, nor did she ask what it was. "That would take a while," she instead said, slipping aside out of his grip. "One cop disappears," she huffed in a mutter, crossing her arms over her chest, "and everyone suddenly starts—caring."

She didn't say it out loud, either, but the hidden meaning behind her words was very clear. He looked down at her. "You don't seem to have any problem."

"Yet," she retorted then shook her head with a small sigh that sounded almost genuine. "Just give it a few weeks," she said, "then you'll see what kind of company I will start having."

This time he only smiled at her. She had a point. Stills disappeared, and the rest of his gang gone, the detective was going to be the first person any...concerned party would want to have a talk with. The prospect didn't seem too much optimistic, but as of the moment, it wasn't his concern. "I'm sure you will think of something if it did, Lauren," he said, bored and disinterested, and fixed a mocking half smirk at her. "You're good at adjusting to new situations."

Instead of the sly retort he had expected, this time she only shook her head. "No, Mr. Reese, I'm just good at dealing with what I have. I got dealt a bad hand. But that's life, it happens. Some days you get a good hand, some days a bad one. Dealing with it is just the part of the game."

His words had fallen flat, but her words hit a point. Almost startled, he looked at her, but in the depths of her dark eyes, for a moment, he only saw Kara, and the same intensity and the same harsh indifference that only came when one played too long "the heartless".

_April, 2006_

_His clothes were dirty, so were his hands. The clothes were easy to get rid of, just like everything he had, they were going to be dropped into a dumpster and forgotten, but hands were another matter. The death takes its toll, and its smell stinks, stings. He brought his hands up to his nose, and sniffed...and death smelled of blood... "Could you please stop sulking?" he heard her voice from his back, bored and not caring, "We still have an unfinished business that we need to take care of."_

_The blood fired in his veins, as the ghosts of death rose in his consciousness. He turned to her, his eyes fixed on to hers in a glare. She only sighed. "Stop it." Then she shook her head. "I'm getting sick of this..." she muttered, and her eyes held his glare, hers getting heated even more. "You said you'd do whatever it takes to protect our people," she hissed._

"_Innocent lives," he hissed back, walking to her, "They don't mean anything to you, Kara?"_

_A bitter laugh in all its mocking escaped from her. "Good people bleed as easily as the bad ones, John," she said, walking to him even closer, "What did you expect?" she asked, her eyes narrowed in keen inquisitiveness, "No, seriously, what did you expect?" she asked again, "You must have known there were going to be—mistakes."_

"_Mistakes?" he asked back, his tone edged over a deadly zone, so close to getting "burned", but the image was still so fresh in his mind, and his look, the way he had looked at him while he died. "That's what you call them? Mistakes?"_

_Kara looked at him coldly, coated with a harsh indifference, her look as sharp as a razor. "I believe the correct term is the collateral damage." She took another step forward, "That was a mistake, John, and I guarantee you there will more," she said, her tone suddenly softening, "They're the part of the job."_

"_So am I supposed to get used to it?" he asked in a rasped whisper._

"_No," she answered, "you're just supposed to deal with it. We can't save everyone, John." She let out a sigh, as she sat down on the bed. "I don't ask you to be heartless, John. I know it's an impossible task—" she continued, "I'm just asking you to find a way to stop it affecting your objectives."_

His mind pulled back and twirled further in the years, just two days ago...

_I don't have any friend. I don't have any family left either. Went around the world looking for bad guys, but there were plenty of you right here all along._

And the woman in front of him fell in the middle of somewhere between, perhaps just beside next to him. Perhaps she was like him, not a bad person, just a person with very bad decisions. Perhaps in the past there had been a point for her, too, a point in which if she could have opened her mouth and said the words, things would have been very, very different.

_Wait for me._

But that was past, and what happened in the past has no part at the present. So he looked at her, and said, "Theresa Whitaker. Two years ago. Murder-suicide."

She only nodded back. "I'll look around."

She started walking to the door, but he caught her from her elbow. He pulled her back to him. "I need it today."

Her eyes narrowed, as her voice turned into a hiss. "You're pushing it too much."

"Deal with it," he said, before leaving, "it's the part of the game, too."

* * *

><p><em>"Dealing with it," was inspired by one of my fellow author friend <strong>McJunker's<strong> stories. I could say "read it" but he hasn't posted it yet._

_"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," was inspired from there, too, but it's actually a verse from Pope. _


	4. Chapter III

_**Chapter III – Plus ça Change**_

* * *

><p>As she slapped the file he had asked for on his open hand, for a moment, Lauren felt nothing had changed.<p>

Plus ça change, her old French Literature professor used to say, the more things change, the more they are the same. Nothing in her life seemed to change. Oh, certainly, the faces and the demands were in the constant change, each evolving accordingly their masters' wishes, but she was the same; the same puppet who danced at the end of someone else's rope.

He took the file, and turned to leave, no good byes, not even a thank you, not that she had expected one.

No unnecessary civility for a puppet, she had already gathered it a long time ago; no one was going to respect you before you gave them something to respect.

Curtly, she pulled her hair up, and zipped her cardigan up over her neck, and started doing what she did the best. She ran.

She ran, her heels barely touching to the ground, she ran until the blood boiled in her veins, until a drone buzzed in her ear drums, until she knew no one was going to be able to catch her. Until she knew no one was going to be able to get her.

_August, 1995_

"_Hey kiddo," Mr. Tompkins greeted her, as she walked toward the bar that he stood behind, and slid on a stool, "What's up? How did it go?"_

"_Disastrous," she answered, and looked at him pleadingly, "Can I have a scotch, Mr. Tompkins?" she asked, showing her palm where a few metallic dollars brightly shone. "I have money."_

_The older man first looked at the money then shook his head. "You know the rules, Lauren," he said, "You're still not 21, and Barbs certainly wouldn't like me selling whiskeyto an underage."_

_Her head crestfallen, she nodded. "But what she doesn't know," the man continued as a glass pushed over her line of vision, "doesn't hurt her."_

_Lifting her head up, she beamed up at him, her problems for a moment forgotten, instead all she could think of was how truly lucky she had been having legal guardians such as Tompkins'. "How did it go?" her former foster father, and current landlord asked again as she took a sip from her glass._

_She shrugged. "Won't get it," she answered this time, words rough with the bitterness of whiskey, "They took us all in, even interviewed, but it was all staged." She let out a sigh. "I don't even know why I even try anymore."_

_Mr. Thompkins frowned. "We had this talk before, Lauren."_

_She laughed, stark and hollow, and showed him a hand poster where two slim girls leaned sleekly against a dancing pole. "One of the guys gave me this today," she said bitterly, "said that I'm more suited for this line of work, instead Law School." Taking another sip from her liquid, she shook her head. "Perhaps I should try it," she mused out disgustingly, "with the tips I could certainly pay the bills."_

_Mr. Tompkins titled his burly head aside as if in thoughts. "No," he said after a pause, slow in careful deliberation, "No one would take you seriously in the court after they see you shaking your boobs at them."_

_She stared at him. "I was joking, Mr. Tompkins."_

_The man frowned. "Well, I thought it was a good idea," he said, "If I was a girl, between tending a bar and that, I would definitely choose "that"" he said, pointing a finger at the poster. She looked at him, still staring. "The tips are really better, Lauren," he defended his line of thought._

_She then shrugged. "Well, it wouldn't work for me anyway."_

"_No," he again agreed._

"_No one would respect me," she continued, he again nodded. "Not that anyone ever respects me or something," she added sotto voce, words still rough, as her eyes drifted toward the hand poster._

_With a big hand, her foster father reached out to it, and balling it inside his palm, he threw it into the trash bin at his back. "Enough with self-pity, Lauren," he told her, "Do what you do the best. What I don't know is why you keep trying on those crooks."_

_Sensing where the conversation was going, she let out a sigh. "Mr. Tompkins," she started with defeat, "No coach would accept me in Athletics track team," she said, "I have no serious background."_

"_Nonsense," the older man refused, "you're the fastest girl I have ever seen."_

"_I just love...running," she said, almost whining, "but I don't know any technique."_

"_You don't need to," he shot back, not giving an inch at her tone. "Just show them what you do the best. Run, Lauren, just run," he leaned forward over the bar, and his eyes held hers, "Until no one can catch you, until no one can get you."_

* * *

><p>The next day, just before she passed by the restroom, again she was caught at her back shoulders, and pulled inside roughly then got thrown against the hard wall. She closed her eyes as her back hit the wall. "As much as I'm flattered to have this much testosterone at my disposal," she hissed, opening her eyes, "This is really not necessary."<p>

In response, she got a half mocking smirk. "I thought you enjoy it rough, Lauren."

"The fact that you know a few _fact_s about me," she said, trying to keep her voice slow and even, and failing, "doesn't mean you know me."

"I couldn't dream of it," he shot back.

"What is it this time?" she asked, her tone now practically a hiss, "What do you need?"

"I need to find a killer."

"A specific one, I presume?"

He shrugged. "Well, kinda."

Surpassing the urge to sigh deeply, she bit the bullet, and asked, "Who?"

He fixed his eyes at her. "I don't particularly know."

Her eyebrows rose at that, then she halted. "Wait for a minute—" she said, frowning, "You're looking for that girl's murderer—" she commented, searching the girl's name through her memory, "Theresa Whitaker."

He nodded. "So you're sure it's a murder?" she asked skeptically.

"That's what I'm going to find out," he rasped, "There must be someone in the city—someone who knows when one wants another get killed."

She sighed. "You don't look for a killer," she said, as understanding dawning on her, "You're looking for a fixer."

"How can I find him?"

She cast her eyes at him in seriousness. "That would be—reckless," she commented slowly.

"You're worried about me," he asked, his half smirk appearing again at the corner of his lips, "I'm touched." She didn't even bother with a reply, only gave him a look. Then the smirk disappeared, and he asked adamantly, "Do you know someone?"

But for that, this time she only smiled while letting a soft breath out, "You asked."

With that, she turned to leave. She exited out of the restroom, him on her tails. They walked in the corridor stiffly, their steps purposeful. One of her co-workers called her from behind as they stepped out of her precinct but she didn't turn around, instead kept walking to her car. Inside the car, the silence hung while she drove to Queens, but despite the tension in the air neither of them tried to disturb it. Once, she arrived at the corner of 21st Ave on the Astoria Blvd, she stopped the car along the curb, and looked at him. She pointed to the restaurant at the corner. "The man behind the bar is your guy," she started briefing him, "Grown up with Russians, he's learned to look for greener pastures. Now, takes a piece of most contract killings in the city. We can't even touch him." She craned her neck slightly, and shifted a look at him. "He's dangerous," she gave him the fair warning as he opened the door then said with a small smile, just before he stepped out of the car, "but so you are."

One leg on the pavement, he half turned to her, and flashed back the same smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

As he walked to the restaurant, her smirk grew into a wolfish smirk. Yes, she did give him the fair warning, but she somehow slipped off to mention that the Russians still ganged with him, hanging around his place, and considered the guy as—a friend. The last man who had tried to cross him had been found in two separate dumpsters. Now, she really didn't think the things could escalate that long over some information that none other than her friend really cared, but they were certainly going to heat up. She got out of the car, too, and propped her hips against its hood, still smiling contently. A few broken ribs and limps would suffice; no need to get—murderous.

Then she saw him getting thrown out of the restaurant, directly over the garbage outside, and a man with a gun followed him out. She sighed. So much for hoping for some broken bones. It appeared even the mob wanted to play safe these days around here. The man pointed his gun at Reese threateningly, his mouth moving then turned to walk into. Reese looked at him behind his back, then his head turned to her, his eyes searched for her. When he found her, he gave her a raised eyebrow then pulled himself up. He brushed his clothes off, then looked at her for a second, with an open smile and all, then he started going back inside.

The moment took her off balance, and her eyes widening with shock, she slid off of the car's hood. He kicked open the restaurant's door with a strong move, and walked into purposefully. At first she only heard a few shouts, barely reaching to her ears, then she heard the sounds of shattering and clashing. Then screams followed, as a man flew through the window at the front, shattering it on the ground with a bang. Through the open window, she saw his tall and dark silhouette as he fought with three-no, four—no five men at the same time. She couldn't be sure, she couldn't see openly, everything was in a chaos, shifting to and away over her point of view, and she was planted where she stood, still in shock. More screams followed, more shattering heard before Reese staggered out of once-being-a-good-establishment, his figure supporting the vestiges of his victory in his disheveled hair, torn clothes, bruised flesh, and blood covered hands.

When he reached the car, he opened the door and sat on the passenger seat. "Got a name," he told her, when she sat on her seat, "Let's go."

As she jerked the key into ignition, she saw her hands almost trembling. She let out a breath, and tried to collect herself. She let out another breath then looked at him. Apart from the blood oozing from one corner of his forehead, his face was blank, whether he knew what she had tried to do couldn't be opened from his expression. She knew he was dangerous, that much she knew from his fights with Stills and gangs, but she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, and seeing it now somehow put things into a different perspective. He wasn't just dangerous, he was—deadly, and just he had told himself, he was very good at it.

She looked at him again, and asked herself how she could always manage to get involve into these things. "Where?" was the thing that she asked aloud.

"Your friend pointed me a contract killer named Solnick," he answered in his usual monotone hushed tone like nothing had happened, as she started the car, "The problem is this Solnick got himself locked up for a separate job." She threw a side look at him, "So we're going to arrange a visit."

This time, she couldn't help it. She sighed out deeply.

* * *

><p>Next to her, he was silent, bleeding quietly. Her eyes shifted to him, over the bruises, and the blood that had caked over his forehead now with dirt. "Do you want to go to a hospital?" she asked, and felt incredibly stupid as soon as the words left her mouth.<p>

He turned to her, and gave her a look, clearly indicating that he thought of the same thing. She turned back to the road. "Okay," she laughed, shaking her head, "Stupid question." He reflected silently her laughter back, his smile this time lacking his usual mocking for a change. Getting encouraged at the sudden change in his demeanor, she tried—for small talk. "But, seriously," she said, "we need to patch you up first—" she said, and pointed out, "You can't go to County like this."

That got his attention. He looked at her, "Take the left turn, and go to 18th Street," he ordered. She did as she was instructed. When she parked along a dead-end alley behind a dumpster, he stepped out of the car, and went to the trunk. When he turned back, the first aid kit of the car was in his hand. She didn't ask how he had known where to look, she could still remember where her old friend Stills had ended up.

He got inside the car, pulled down the visor mirror, and started tending his wounds. He didn't ask for help, she didn't offer one. She twisted half on her seat, though, to look at him better. He was handsome, like his features cut by an expert artist, definite and precise, and furious. The anger was always there, hidden behind his mocking smirks and barbs, just under his skin, ready to lash out at the first sight of trouble, as quick and deadly as a flash in the dark. She leaned further back on her seat, and crossed her arms over her chest. "How do you learn to fight like that?" she asked.

His hand halted over a cut over his cheekbone, his eyes shifted toward her. "Around," he said then, turning back to his business.

She laughed. "I guess...army?" she asked, but this time he didn't react, went on tending his own injuries, "But the regular army doesn't teach people to fight like this..." His hands slightly halted but still he didn't turn to her. She pushed further. "Special forces, green berets..." she paused for a second, then continued, "or Blackwater? The detective in homicide thinks it is," she said, and this time his hand definitely halted.

He turned to her. "What do you know about her?" he asked, throwing the cotton he had used into a cartoon bag and covered the cut with a plaster.

"Aside that she's got a fixation on you," she said, flashing a rough smile, "Nothing, really." He looked at him, demanding explanation. "She's sniffing around," she explained, "I saw her today looking around in that "elevator" business you sent me to."

Wordlessly, he nodded. "How did you know it?" she asked then.

He stayed in silence first then slowly said, "I got a tip."

"From a friend?" she asked back, laughing.

"You know how it is," he only said. Oh, she did, she definitely did. He finished his job, and motioned at her. Twisting back on her seat, she started the car, and started driving back to Manhattan. "That girl," she went on her questioning, "Theresa...was she a friend?"

"No—"

She narrowed her eyes. "Then why do you want to find her killer?"

"No one killed her, Lauren," he answered, but she recognized the elusion tactic.

"Really?" she asked again, letting him drift her off topic, "because you see, I thought we're going to have a talk with her killer."

"No, Solnick possibly killed her family, but left her alive," he explained, "And that's what we're going to talk to him about."

"But how do you know she is still alive?" she asked further.

"Because I saw her," he rasped in whisper, his eyes slightly shifting toward his bandaged hand.

"Oh," she said, "Then that explains, I guess." Then she frowned. "But you said you didn't know her."

He showed her his bandaged hand, flashing a little smirk. "Well, we didn't have an opportunity for a chat."

She took a breath in. "She did that to you?" she asked in wonder.

"I was caught unguarded," he hissed.

She laughed, taking the Queensboro Bridge back to Manhattan. "So—the question is...why...?" she asked, "Why do you want to find her?" This time he didn't answer. She laughed again. "Come on, Mr. Reese," she went on, "the "Tall, Dark, and Mysterious" looks really good on you, but if you get me running around in New York looking for ghosts, you could at least tell me the reason."

Turning his head back to her, he gave her a look. "You run around in New York looking for ghosts, Lauren, because _I_ ask you to do it," he answered in curt whispers, "that's the only reason you need."

The words hit her like a fist in the stomach. She even flinched back for a fraction at the gravity of the words, turning back to the reality. She forced her lips pulled out in a smile, then forced them to form a "fair enough." And it was fair enough. They weren't partners, or friends or anything. She wasn't here on her own will. He was right. She was only into this, whatever this it was, only because he had forced her hand into it, like the others did. "Plus ça change," she muttered under her breath, her eyes fixed ahead on the road, hurting. The more things changed, the more they became the same.

_August, 1995_

_Awkwardly, she looked around the tracks, people clustered, crossed over the white lines. Expectedly, she was standing alone, away from the clusters, almost unsteady on trembling legs. God, she wished at least Mr. Tompkins had been here with her. The whole experience was foreign, something she hadn't dealt with it before, and something she wasn't ready for yet. Perhaps she just should turn back and go back to where she belonged. A girl from Bronx in Ivy League...she wasn't cut out for this, she wasn't suited for this. Let her deal with snatching bartenders, cheating customers, and leaking toilets. She could twist an arm in three seconds, could spot a cheat in three minutes, and could fix a leak in half of an hour. But this...this was entirely something else._

_She must have been mad, believing that could be her life, believing that she could be more than "a girl from Bronx". She turned around, and almost headed back, but with the corner of her eye, she saw him, strolling toward her, with a big smile, white teeth flashing. "Mr. Tompkins!" she almost cried, running toward him._

"_Hey kiddo," he greeted her, "Are you ready?"_

"_I—I don't know—" she said, looking around, then turned back to him. "How did you come? What about the pub?"_

_He gave her another big smile. "Left it to Barbs," he answered, "She didn't like it much, I tell you, but you're our little Lauren," he said, with another smile. "She really wanted to come, too, you know," he said._

"_It's fine. I know. Thank you," she said, and laughed, and almost wanted to hug him, but she didn't. "Thank you," she said again, "Really. I really appreciate it."_

"_Don't mention it," he said, and fixed his eyes on her. "Remember what I said?" he asked._

_She nodded, letting a breath out. "Don't listen to anything, anyone. Just run."_

_He nodded, satisfied. "You do that."_

_A whistle in the air was heard. She craned her head, and looked at the left. People had already started to get into start position. She turned back to her former foster parent. "I—I need to go to there."_

_He nodded. "You'll do good, kiddo," he told her, just before she left him, "Trust yourself."_

_With a sigh, she placed her number on her chest, and took up the start position. She shut off all voices around her, all the whispers. None of them mattered. Nothing matter but the whistle, then she would run. She touched on the ground with her fingertips at the second whistle, raising her hips up, one foot in front of the other, and waited for the final call._

_When it came, she closed her eyes, and did what she always did best; she ran._

_After the race, she waited next to Mr. Tompkins, her foot tapping the floor agitatedly, her muscles still burning. She ached, for a few seconds in her life, she ached in every fiber of her being. Then her name was called. She looked at Mr. Tompkins, who smiled at her again encouragingly. With trembling legs, she entered into the coach's office. The bulking man was seated on his chair behind his desk, his hands holding her papers. When she walked into the room, he lifted his eyes, and looked at him over the pages. "Lauren Fusco," he read in a baritone voice, "From Bronx Coalition Community High School," he added._

"_Yes," she said, her words tensing, then she snapped, and the whole tension in her body finally found a way out, and lashed out, "Is there a problem?"_

_He lifted his head, and raised an eyebrow at her tone. "No," he slowly said, "But you have to understand," he went on, placing her dossier on his desk, "it's not every day I got a girl from Bronx High School who can run like Flash."_

_She looked at him, trying to understand what he was thinking. She couldn't read it. He was inspecting her carefully, his eyes prying and keen, and she wasn't sure if she liked it. She then shrugged. "You spend a lot of time running when you live in the Bronx."_

"_Must be tiring," he said in return._

_She shrugged again. "It's a living."_

_Silently, he laughed again. "You got the spirit, Ms. Fusco," he commented, "but I have a dilemma." He paused for a second. "Frankly, I don't know what to do with you. You run but you lack any respectable technique, you just...run." He shook his head. "I've seen people like you. You start fast then soon get yourself burned." His eyes pried on her even closer. "I'm going to ask you a question, but don't tell me lies. I will know." He paused again, looking at her. "Do you use anything?"_

_For a moment, she didn't understand what he had asked. Then she shook her head. "No," she answered, "Never."_

"_Never?"_

"_It's not my style."_

"_I've seen people like you running on steroids," he said, "But, forget it," he patted her file, "if you do, we will know." He looked at her again. "Perhaps not this time, but the next time, some time. We always do, at the end. You can't cheat forever."_

_She didn't quite understand the rest of the words after "the next time." She heard them but the meanings vaporized in her mind. "The next time?" she asked._

_He nodded, standing up from his seat. He went to her side. "There is something with you, Ms. Fusco," he said, shaking his head, "You're gonna take a lot of time, you're going to have to forget everything you've ever learned, and start from scratch, but the way you run..." He looked at her. "I saw you on the track. You ran like it was the whole point, you ran like it was the last time and you could never run again. You ran like your life depended on it. And that's what I want from you, Ms. Fusco, everything."_

_And that was the best deal she had ever gotten. "And you will get it, sir," she promised, "Everything."_

"_We will see," he said, returning to his seat, as with a flick of hand, he sent her away._

_Smiling, she left the office. And there he was, Mr. Tompkins stood waiting. When he saw her smile, he smiled back. "I got it," she ran to him, and did something she hadn't done in years. She jumped in his arms, and hugged, her laughter chiming high in the hall. He laughed with her. "Mr. Tompkins, I got it," she chanted over, "I got it."_

"_That's my girl," he said, putting her down, "That's my smart girl." He pulled an inch back. "I've always known it."_

_She looked at him with tears in her eyes. "I don't know how to thank you," she said, "Without you, I never could manage."_

"_Very touching," a mocking male voice interjected into their moment, and she swung around to see the source of the interruption. "I didn't believe when I heard the news," he said, slyly walking toward her, his hands shoved into his pockets, "But I can clearly see how it looks to the coach." When he stood a few feet away from her, she finally recognized him. It was the guy who had given her that hand poster. She drew in a sharp silent breath. Mr. Tompkins' eyes slid over to her. "An American Dream," he continued with a dramatic tone, "The Bronx Girl in the Ivy League."_

_She could hear the bones in Tompkins' hands cranking as he balled them into fists. "Do you know this young gentleman, Lauren?" he asked._

_She shook her head. "Don't believe I've had the pleasure, yet," she hissed, her eyes fixed on the unnamed man._

"_I'm Adam," he introduced himself to her, "But don't bother, I know who you are."_

"_Apparently," she shot back, then turned to Mr. Tompkins, "Mr. Tompkins, can you—uh—wait for me outside. I think Adam and I need to have a talk here."_

_He looked at him in suspicion first at her, then at him. "Are you sure?" he asked in whisper._

"_Yes," she told him adamantly, "It's okay. I can deal with him."_

_He nodded, "All right, kiddo," he said, and whispered into her ear just before he left, "If he bothers you too much, just punch him in the nose."_

_She laughed, and said out loud, "I'll keep that in mind." When he left, she turned to look at Adam, her head titled aside in consideration, her eyes hawkish. _

"_What are you looking at, Fusco?"_

"_Nothing," she shrugged with a smile, "I'm just trying to decide if you'd be a problem or not," she said._

"_Oh?" he asked, as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his hands still in his pockets, "What did you decide then?"_

"_I don't know—" she said in slow deliberation, "I don't think you'd be that much stupid, but again—" she gave out a sigh, "you don't seem very smart, either."_

_He took a few steps closer to her, and held her upper arm, "You dumb humbug—"_

_As if insulted, she flinched back, "That's the first time I've ever been called dumb." He opened his mouth but she didn't let him speak, "Adam," she told him instead, as her eyes pointedly went toward her arm that he still held tightly, "Are you aware that how close you look to sexually harassing a woman?" she asked._

_He looked at her in shock. "What?"_

"_Let's say if I just pulled my arm from your grip, and started screaming that you'd tried to force yourself on me, who would know?" she asked him sweetly, "The cameras don't have sounds, just visuals. And they're constantly recording."_

_He let go of her arm as if he was burned. "You can't get anything from there," he said. "It's circumstantial evidence."_

"_Perhaps," she shrugged again, "but you seem forget that you gave me a striptease club poster in front of three witnesses," she went on, like they were talking about a mock-case in class, "saying that I'm much more suited there instead of here." She looked at him with the same smile, "Can you imagine how it'd look in front of the juries? You're the lawyer-soon-to-be; do the math."_

_Getting in the play, he smiled back suavely, and shoved his hands again inside his pockets. "Again circumstantial," he reminded her, "You can't stick it. It will drop off."_

_She shook her head. "That's where you get it wrong, sweetheart. The world isn't the same place as it used to be. We've changed it. Just with a press of button, I can talk to the other side of the world online. Our computers are all connected. They bind us, circle us. Everything we do is recorded and collected. Everything sticks, everything is stuck. When you go to trial, it's going to be on the news; the "Upper Eastside Boy" from Ivy League is tried for sexual harassment. Can you imagine fireworks?" she asked, smiling openly, "Oh, they're going to love it, then they will forget. But the records—"she waved her hands over the cameras, "they won't. They will stick."_

_Letting a breath out, he nodded. "I see."_

_She nodded back. "Glad that we reached an agreement," she told him, then paused for a second before she started talking, "I don't have any quarrel with you, Adam, but if you want a fight, you will get one."_

_With that, she turned to leave, but just before she finished the corridor and stepped in the elevator, Adam called her. "Lauren," she turned and looked at him. He was still in the same pose, his legs slightly aside, his hands shoved into his pockets, impeccably everything she had ever hated and wanted, "You won't stick," he said, "Whatever you do, one day, you will return where you come from. Because whether you admit or not, you don't belong here."_

"_Perhaps," she told him in return, "But if I ever go down, Adam, I guarantee you I'll be taking whoever has pushed me along with me."_


	5. Chapter IV

_Last part of the second episode._

_**Chapter IV – "All's well that ends well"**_

* * *

><p>"Who are you? My lawyer quit again?" the contract killer asked. Lauren smiled, sitting down next to Reese in the visitation room.<p>

Reese's demeanor didn't waver. He brought the old fashioned phone close to his mouth. "I'd like to talk to you about that family you murdered and dumped in the Bowery Bay," he answered. Solnick let out a humorless hollow laughter, and turned half back to look around. Possibly to see who got himself in that dealt. Reese caught the slip. "Oh, you don't want to talk about that one?" he asked, feigning an interest, "How about some of the other people you killed? Like the brother of that gang leader that lives on your cell block. I'm sure he'd love to know his brother's last words. Hmm?"

Somehow it was good to see him threatening someone else for a change in that strange voodoo of his, words spoken in a soft husk, despite the violence they promised. It made things less personal. "Ah. I get it," Solnick commented from the other side, "You're like me. A killer. A genuine bad guy." Her eyes shifting to him, she tried to gauge Reese's reaction. None. Not even a twitch, not even an inch. His face stayed in the same expression, of stone. But this time she couldn't decide if she liked it or not. Their interactions were always a back-and-forth, granted it usually ended up him wining at the end, but there were always some expressions in his features, sometimes of good, sometimes of bad, like their last conversation in the car before they arrived to County. But this man next to her sounded—hollow.

For the first time in his company, Lauren really felt the danger, more profoundly than she ever did. "I don't have to explain to you what happened to those people on that boat," Solnick went on, "You already know."

"What I don't know is why you let the girl live," Reese said in return.

"I wouldn't have killed the girl. Not even if they paid me my quote," the killer explained, letting a sigh out. At the other side of him, Lauren reflected the same sentiment, understanding dawning on her. "I told her if anyone ever knew she was alive, I'd finish the job. I don't kill kids." Because it was one thing less-loved than a rapist in the prison it was child-killers. The old man wasn't being sentimental, far from it, he was being practical.

"Who hired you?" she asked, deciding to be the same, too.

The contract killer's eyes moved to her. "Some guy I met one time," he answered her question, "No names. Cash." He paused for a second, before he turned back her question, "Who hired you?"

Standing up from her chair, she smiled silently, the irony of the question wasn't lost to her. She guessed it really took one to know one.

Outside, they followed a wing hall, then suddenly Reese pulled out his phone, and started having a conversation. "Guys who kill kids aren't popular in jail. Solnick's been defending his honor." His words made her head snap at him in shock. Today was her day for surprises, she guessed. Because for a moment, Mr. Reese next to her had sounded like he was giving reports to the other side of the line.

"I don't know. But we need to figure it out," he answered to whatever the other side had told him, walking quickly to the first exit, her padding after him, trying to keep up with his pace, "Fast."

Okay, that was getting even more interesting. Clearly, not giving reports, because she'd never heard anyone who could talk to a superior in that tone. Not that she was surprised of, of course. She was kinda getting used to taking orders from him, the notion that he was given orders, too, somehow very disturbing. Though, in some points in his life, he had been a soldier, and taking orders were a part of military life as much as giving them.

"Landale," Reese told to the phone. The name sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn't place it anyway. "Send me the address," he said as they walked out of the County prison, "I'm on my way."

Well, she guessed it was time to say farewell, but her curiosity won over her common sense. Someday it was really going to be her dawn fall. "The man at the phone?" she asked, standing at lamp pole at the corner, "Who is he?"

That smile appeared on his features as soon as she spoke, almost automatically. She felt relaxed, turning back to their unspoken working arrangements. "My...contractor," he said after a pause.

She raised an eyebrow. "So you're on a contract?"

"Something like that," he muttered, leaving her side and crossing the street. She followed him. "What's Landale?" she asked when she caught him, "It seems familiar but I can't place it."

"You must have seen it in Theresa's files," he answered, without looking at her, "It was passing there."

"Right," she said, and stopped when they arrived to her car. This time it was really the time to say farewell. She pressed the button on her key to open the car, and stood hovering over the door. "Well," she said, then paused, then made an uncommitted voice, "good luck," she said finally, and started getting inside the car.

His voice stopped her in the middle of the action. "I need you to come with me to Landale."

Standing up away, she threw her hands up in the air. "I have a job, you know," she said. His eyebrows rose skeptically. She huffed. "I need to show up around," she continued, "It'd draw attention otherwise. The dogs are already sniffing around."

Suddenly like bored with her problems, he shrugged. "My attention might be needed somewhere else," he told her with an unapologetic look, "I need someone to watch over Landale non-stop."

She sighed. "I assume that _someone_ is gonna be me for a time," she snapped, getting inside the car.

Doing the same, he smirked at her. "Don't whine, detective," he said, "it's a part of the job, too."

She couldn't help it. An "asshole" escaped from her, just before the motor roared back to the life. Whether he had heard it or not, though, she was never going to know for sure.

* * *

><p>She had to give it to him; he knew how to make surveillance. Finding the building that had the best view of Landale's office stories, they had climbed the apartment's fire escape, and perched on the small landing. The wind up in the height billowed through her hair, and huffing she took the elastic around her wrist, and fixed it up in a ponytail. Then she turned her attention back to the folder she had been reading. "Landale Financial. Thirty million or so in holdings," she read, "Principal is a guy named Calhoun." She lifted her head up, and looked at his figure holding a one-eyed binocular, watching carefully the third floor of the opposite building. "We have eyes on him?" she asked.<p>

"Yes," he confirmed, and went on, "Well, Calhoun's got a lot of security for a real estate developer." And really, who would be shocked at this. "Wait a second," he then said, shifting at the edge, leaning forward as if to get a better view, then dropped the binocular, and turned to her. "I think I just found Theresa's uncle," he announced.

She raised her eyebrow. "Derek Whitaker?" she asked, "Why would he turn up here?"

He grimaced. "I don't know," he answered, "yet." Then his phone squalled. He pressed the wireless speaker on his ear. As the other side talked, he tensed, then closed the line with a stiff "Will do." He turned to her, and gave her another small wireless earpiece.

"Put it in your ear," he ordered, "keep the connection open. I want to know if something happens here."

In other words, he didn't trust her yet that far away. Nodding, she took the small item, and attached it to her ear.

For fifteen minutes, everything was silent, and the world for a scarcely fifteen minutes had the peace again. Then her ear buzzed, and she heard his voice inside her head, but it wasn't directed at her. "Is it a wireless network?" he asked under a faint static.

She understood he was talking to his—contractor. She kept her silence, watching Landale, then after a minute, she heard his voice, but it wasn't anything like she had ever heard him talk before. The voice was still the same of course, the same husky timbres, but it was as if the words were coming out of someone else's mouth. She could only presume he had found Theresa. "Hey," he called softly, "you got me pretty good back there." His hand, she understood, he was talking about his hand, "I'm not looking for a rematch," he went on, "I know what happened to you and your family. I'm here to help you."

She lowered her binoculars, her eyebrows losing behind her hairline. I'm here to help you. He had spoken like he had meant it, like he really cared. No, that couldn't be. No one cared, especially for total strangers. First she had thought the girl of someone he had known, despite everything he had said, inkling the otherwise, but the last words hadn't left anything to speculate. He didn't know the girl. But he wanted to help her, for real. She couldn't explain, but she knew he was telling the truth. He had a way of saying the truth.

"The man that killed your family's in jail," he went on, "No one's gonna hurt you again, because I won't let them."

The intensity of the words for a moment made her lose her breath. She looked around, then peeked below. God, she was up in a third floor of a building, doing the field work, while in her ear someone was talking about the things that she had been always sure that they didn't exist. She felt lost. She didn't understand what she was doing here. Her only attempt to do it had gotten blocked rather curtly. Helping...that was what he was only trying to do. The notion seemed hysterical, things like that didn't exist in the real world, no heroes or villains. Though, he was trying to protect a young girl against a killer, and that she guessed could get him under the "hero" category.

She didn't know. With Stills, and Hansen she had been sure he had an agenda, something she couldn't figure out. Then she remembered how he had been surprised when he had understood that Hansen had been working with them, or they were rather working for Hansen. Could it be that he had had a "tip" for Hansen, as well? But that still didn't explain why he thought she had needed help. Hansen wasn't a damsel in distress, not like the little Theresa here. Perhaps his "tips" weren't all that definite, that would explain the whole mess. Or how he didn't know much about Theresa as well.

Frustrated, she wanted to scream. She wanted the things to go back to the ways they had been before, wanted the life to be simple again. If she was going to be under another man's beck and call, was it too much to ask understanding his motives? That was the most disturbing part of their arrangement. She knew what he wanted from her, he was generally being very specific with it, but she didn't understand him. She had never had this problem, neither with Adam nor with Stills. She had always understood them, with a perfect clarity.

Another male voice, coming in farther away brought her out of her musing, "You really shouldn't lie to kids."

Ah, she thought as she heard the following fighting sounds, someone at least had started to do something she could understand.

Their killer finally found them.

More grunts and fighting sounds ensued in her ear until she heard the sound of breaking glass. "Reese?" she called in, her hand pressed on the wireless accessory but for a moment didn't get an answer. Though, the faint grunting in her ear told her he was at least still alive. She stood up from her post, and started to climb down the fire escape, just as she heard a round of gun shots, three times, with deeper grunts. "Reese?" she tried again, stopping her descent, "are you okay?"

This time she got the answer. "Yeah," he muttered, "Theresa is on the run," he informed, but she wasn't sure who he was informing, her or his contractor, so she kept her silence. "Theresa," she heard him call the girl shortly after, "Are you gonna trust me now?"

"I don't know you," Theresa said in the background.

"You're gonna need to trust someone," he said back.

Drawing out a silent breath, Lauren leaned against the wall on the fire escape, and felt like she had lost all the sense in the world.

* * *

><p>Her ear was finally silent, again. With the knock on the door, just while they were talking about the Uncle Derek, Reese had severed their connection. She didn't know who had come, but she had a very good guess. Sitting on the railings of the fire escape, her eyes shifted below, and she watched the city under her feet. A child screamed at her mother, dragging his feet, while the mother tried to pull the child at the opposite side. A homeless man walked out of the subway, along many by-passers, a cluster of high school students hanging just around the corner, looking nothing for but trouble.<p>

She bowed her head, and hit it at the railings with a deep sigh. Then the buzz was in her ear again. "Lauren?" he called her.

"God," she answered, snapping her head up, "I thought you really forgot me here!"

"Never give up on hoping," he shot back in her ear with the same muttered disinterest, turning back to their usual way of talking.

"I don't think anyone is gonna show up here today," she said, as the sun started settling down in the east, "Can I go home now?" she snickered, "Am I allowed to?"

He laughed. "Well, if you want," he said, "but I was hoping you would join me again."

She titled her head up, "For what?"

"For getting the Uncle Derek for a talk."

"Well, sweetheart," she said, standing up from her post, and sliding downward, she jumped onto the next landing spot. "You know how to get a girl's interest."

* * *

><p>When she arrived the rock bar he had given her the address for, she looked around, her eyes traveling over the filthy ghetto that reminded of her own childhood neighborhood in the Bronx. "Lovely," she shot back as he appeared out of a dark shadow at the corner.<p>

"He keeps a low profile," he said, and asked, "Brought your car?"

She nodded. He stepped out in the light, and she swallowed at what she saw. He looked like hell. Two fights in the same day had taken their toll. They walked to her car, and he sunk into passenger seat, she went to the trunk to pick up the first aid kit for the second time. She came to the driver's side again, and sat on her seat. For a moment, before handing him the kit, she thought of offering help, but then decided against it. No needed to get things more—personal.

Besides, he would probably decline.

In silence, he finished tending his wounds, his steady hands clearly trained for this kind of work. She checked her watch then rested her head at the headrest. Perhaps she just should have gone home. Once again, she started feeling that lost feeling, like she didn't know what she was doing. And it wasn't an exaggeration. She really didn't know what she was doing, she had thought they were going to pack up someone, and then question him. He hadn't mentioned sitting in the car, waiting.

She felt the ire rising again in the tense silence. She snapped her head up, and looked at him curtly. He looked back at her, and the words followed even before she knew what she was doing. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, "what's your angle?"

He dropped the cotton ball in his hand, and shook his head. "I don't have an angle."

She shook her head with a sniff, "Everyone has an angle."

"Well, I don't," he snapped, "I just help people."

She gave him a look, a smile appearing, "Then perhaps that's your angle," she said, "helping people."

He didn't answer first, only looked back at her, then one corner of his lips titled up faintly, "Perhaps," he said, then stepped out of the car, "Go home, Lauren," he said, "have a sleep, then come to Bowery Bay to pick up the trash in the morning." He closed the door. "We'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>He kept his promise.<p>

When she had arrived to Bowery Bay, the uncle was already deep down in the mud, already weeping. "Remember this place, Derek?" Reese asked, furious in justified calm rage, "Where they dumped your brother's whole family in the water like chum?"

The man went with the whole "I don't know what you're talking about" business. Sitting on a rock at the bay, she watched it in silence.

"I tried to help Grant," the man cried over while still weeping.

But there was no mercy in Reese. She had already gathered that. "You helped him, all right. Right into an early grave," he hit the final nail on the coffin, "With no will. Which means that land goes into probate. And then to you, Derek. Let me ask you this: Did you hire the hit man yourself?" He sat down in front of the man, "Or did you let Landale do it?

"I never meant for anyone to get hurt," Derek started to retell, and the rest was just history.

Somehow she wasn't surprised to hear that the man hadn't planned all of this, but just a victim of the circumstances himself as well, but there was no mercy in Reese for that, either, and that she knew from personal experience.

When he was done with him, he called her, "Lauren," she jumped down off her rock, and went over to them. "Take this piece of shit away. He needs to stay hidden. I don't want him around until I get all of this figured."

She nodded, pulling the man up, as he turned and left without any other word.

* * *

><p>His house was a one-bedroom apartment in a mid-rise walk up building. He kept the man ahead of her while they climbed the stairs, and made him open the door with the same position. As soon as they entered inside, she knew something was not right. The hair at the back of her neck raised to attention, pushing him out of way, she quickly swept the room with her eyes, her hands already on her Glock. She drew it out in a precise quick habituation, slewed around the left, leaned against the wall, getting it covered. She moved along the wall until the first corner. Drawing in a silent breath, she stepped out in the way in a curt move, her gun trained at the empty air.<p>

Letting out a breath, she lowered her gun then heard something behind her back.

Two shots—two deadly shots, and something dropped with a dull scream.

She turned around, her hands already raised again, but before she could aim and pull the trigger, a kick hit her hands.

She twirled with the force of the kick, the gun flying out of her hand. Without dawdling, she quickly moved out of his direct line of aim, threw herself in the air, and flipped back behind the couch at her back. She knew she didn't stand a chance against him, she had seen the kind of damage that man had managed to make on Reese. She simply didn't have a chance with—fighting.

She knew it wasn't her best plan. In fact, she knew it must be one of her worst, if it wasn't the worst, but she didn't see any other option.

The footsteps approached closer, and she grabbed the mouse gun that was strapped inside her boots that went over her knees, and pulled the safety. Jumping away from the couch, she aimed for the heart, while praying he did the same.

And, just because she was lucky, or he was just obsessive, or just because God really loved her, he did. The gun pointed at her chest.

Two rounds of shots echoed in the house, one from hers, one from his, then the bullet hit her.

Her eyes blackened as the impact threw her backward, and slid downward before he could come to check, and covered her chest against the wall. The killer gave a quick look at her, as she closed her eyes, and bit her lips with pain, as her lungs fired, her breath turning to lava, but still she kept the grunts threatening to escape from her throat back inside. He wandered around only for thirty second, and yes, she had counted, before she heard the clink of the door.

Tears flowing out of her eyes, she turned around, as pain doubled in her chest, moans and grunt flowing out of her mouth more rapidly than tears from her eyes. Her hands gawked against her shirt, and she ripped it apart, taking the bullet-proof jacket off of her chest with nothing less than a scream. Then with one hand, she found her phone, and dialed his number. "Reese," she hissed in the phone between short painful breaths, but the rest of the words didn't follow.

"Lauren?" he called her name, this time in a rush, and she could swear with a little bit caring, but perhaps it was just her mind playing games with her with the aftershocks of getting almost killed, "What happened?"

"Found your killer," she rasped.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"Got shot," she answered, as he drew in a silent sharp breath, "at my vest," she completed, "Wore it this morning."

He let out this time a deeper breath. "Derek?"

"Down," she answered, "Sorry."

"Can you move out before someone shows up?" he asked.

Putting a hand on the wall, she pulled herself up against it, biting her lips again with pain. "Already started," she said, "I'm going out." She tried to open the door. "They took Derek out. They're tying the loose ends. They must have found where Theresa is," she told him.

"I'm dealing with it," he only said before the line went dead.

She threw herself out and got herself into her car, and did the same, too.

She dealt with it.

At the end, she always did.

* * *

><p>She never managed to find out what exactly had happened afterwards, how he had rescued Theresa, or how she had managed to get the big fish on her tray, collaring for good, but she never did ask anyways. Whatever happened happened, and as long as all's well that ends well, who really cares? She certainly didn't.<p>

So she stood up in the rain two days later, holding a transparent umbrella above her head, waiting for him. He showed up at the corner, behind him a skyscraper reaching out in the sky with the same arrogance of Babel's Tower, challenging the God up above. For a moment, it seemed adequate, for someone who seemed to have a sort of hero complex. Upon seeing each other, they did their usual ritual; she flashed a little suave smile and the same kind of smile turned one corner of his lips up as they walked to each other. "Mr. Reese," she greeted him, taking him under her umbrella.

"Ms. Fusco," he greeted her back, "I heard you got good collars."

She gave a nonchalant shrug. "Sometimes happens."

"Getting almost killed happens sometimes, as well, Lauren?"

"_That_ happens in a frightening frequency, unfortunately," she said, feigning a sigh, then smiled again, "All's well that ends well."

He nodded. "Brought what I asked for?"

"Of course," she said, handing him the file she was holding in her hand then peeked below as he went over its content quickly. "You really seem to get yourself a fan over there, Mr. Reese." He lifted his eyes up over the pages that contained Detective Carter's information, and gave her a look. "Can't blame a girl, really," she went on sultry, still smiling and holding his eyes under her slightly bowed head. The next moment, she lifted her head up and looked directly at his eyes. "Do you need my further assistance?"

"No, that would be all, Lauren," he answered, hiding the file under his jacket. She smiled again, and turned to leave, but his hand on her elbow stopped her before she walked away. He turned her back to him. "Just one thing," he said, just like he had remembered, taking a step closer to her. "Don't do again what you tried to do at the Junior's restaurant."

She laughed, understanding his words, but still preferred to play the innocent. "Not helping you looking for bad guys?" she asked. He only gave her a look. Laughing again, she gave up the innocent. "Well, sweetheart, you asked," she reminded him, and pointed out, "_And_ I told you he was dangerous."

"You lie to me by omission," he said in the same slow husk, like they were discussing the weather, not her failed plans for his—demise, "Just like how you used to frame up those ex-cons." She looked at him, still holding her smile plastered on her lips. He went on, "What did you expect?" he questioned as the rain turned into a downpour, raindrops falling over them in a flood, "Just that they break a few of my bones and you watch it happen sitting on your car, or did you really hope they would get you rid completely of your current problem?"

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast," she whispered his words back at him.

He stood motionless in the flood. "Corrupt officers are easy to come by in this city, Lauren. You're not the only dirty cop I could convince to do my legwork," he said in warning, taking a step forward, his words edging with a tell-tale roughness.

But she didn't back down, she never did. She titled her head up challengingly, her smile entirely vanished. "Yet you recruited me."

His eyes captured hers, as his head leaned toward hers, "Don't make me regret it," and he whispered just above her ear.

_April, 1998_

_In the dark alley, she called him, "Detective Stills," she yelled with a clear voice, as she walked to him with a purposeful stride, the time for hesitation was over. Adam had to go, that way or another, he had to go. "Detective Stills," she called again. _

_They all turned around, Stills looking at her, with narrowed eyes and all. "Who are you?" he asked her._

_Before she could open her mouth and answer, the guy next to him spoke, "I know her," he said, "That's the girl at the striptease club—" he looked at her, "The pole dancer."_

_She didn't move her attention away from Stills even for a split second. "Yes," she confirmed, "I'm the pole dancer."_

_Stills drew closer, this time sizing her up and down, "What's it, sweetheart?" he asked with a sweet tone that she wanted to puke over, "what do you want?"_

"_I have a problem," she said unceremoniously, then announced, "And I want your help."_

_They looked at each other for a moment, then shared a laugh. "Oh, really?"_

"_There is a man," she explained, "A man bothering me, really bothering me," she stressed the last part strongly. "I want him gone."_

"_And can't you go to the police?" he asked._

_She titled her head. "I think I just did." He barked out a laugh. "My situation is a bit more—delicate," she explained shortly._

"_And why would I care?"_

_She shrugged. "I don't know, I'm in Law School," she said, and watched as they gave her that look, that suspicious look, not believing, the pole dancer being more than what she seemed; impossible, unacceptable. "And the next year, I'm gonna be a prosecutor," she went on, despite the looks she had received. At least, as Mr. Tompkins always said, it never hurt to ask. "If you help me now, I'll owe you one." She paused for a second, "Big time." _

_For a moment he looked at her, as if he was sizing her up but his eyes were doing more than ogling, and she wasn't sure if she liked that. "Sounds reasonable," he then commented, "But...you see, sweetheart, a lot of people asked my help, and a lot of people offered good things, but so few actually delivered what they promised," he said, "How I can know if I help you now, at the end you won't make me regret it?" he asked._

_She shrugged again before she answered his question with the only truth she had, "You can't," she said, "You can guess, but you can never know. And that's what trust is. And you asked the wrong question, detective. Because the question is," she said, stepping closer to him, "Are you going to trust me?"_


	6. Chapter V

_A/N: This is for the fourth episode of season 1; Cura Te Ipsum._

_**Chapter V – "On the other side of the pole"**_

_**I of III**_

* * *

><p>Nine in the morning, John sat on a chair behind the bullet-proof glass in the visitation room of County Prison, the second time in two weeks. Unlike the last time, though, this time he was alone, on the trail of his former company. Using Stills' badge, getting inside the prison hadn't been a big problem, though by the look of things he could tell that the former police officer at the other side would cause some problems. He picked up the phone, and smiled at him. "Hello, Azarello."<p>

The skinny man took the phone at his side with a curt movement, and hissed at the speaker, "You!" He leaned forward toward the glass. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk, Azarello," he simply answered his question.

"About what?"

"About our mutual friend," John clarified.

The former detective laughed at that bitterly before he hissed, "The one you killed in cold blood, you mean?"

"No—" John responded, unfazed, "The other one."

"What are you talking about?" Azarello asked, a frown appearing above his crease, "What other friend?"

He caught the other man's eyes, and held them stiffly. "Detective Fusco."

For a moment, the former detective seemed lost, his expression dazzled, then he started laughing. "Oh, so that was her?" The phone dropped half way from his hands as his laughter grew more hysterical, "I warned Stills, I warned him, but he didn't listen. Can't trust that bitch," he went on, shaking his head, "as slippery as a snake, as cunning as a fox, and as ungrateful as a _woman_."

John raised his eyebrow. "What made you say that?" he asked, faking intrigue. He had already a guess of what he had been talking about, but he wanted to hear it from Azarello himself. Finch still couldn't find it, but he was sure. There had to be something, something she didn't want to become common knowledge, something that the deceased detective had been holding over her head. And the man in front of him, as of the moment, was his best chance to find out what it was.

Azarello shrugged at ease. "Aren't all women like that?"

"But we're talking about a specific one, Azarello," John answered, leaning toward the glass, his eyes never leaving the other man, "And I want to know something." He paused, leaning even further, "How was Stills pulling her strings?"

Azarello gave him a smile. "Having trouble keeping your woman in line, bro?"

John shook his head, expecting things to come to this point. So he turned to what he usually did best, it seemed nothing really worked without some—encouragement. "I'm going to only ask one more time, Azarello, and if you don't answer me," he grated out, "I'm going to inform your cellmate about the things you used to do in Hell's Kitchen."

With that, the former detective's face went pale. He shook his head. "I don't know anything," he began singing, "Stills didn't use to talk about it much, but once he mentioned that he'd helped her out of a—" he paused for a second, "uh—comprising situation." He shook his head again, and concluded, "He never said what it was, bro, I swear."

He looked at the corrupt detective carefully, and saw that he was telling the truth. In his line of work, it'd become easy to set apart lies from the truth, well, most of times. He hung the phone back on the wall, and stood up. To say the truth, he had never expected Azarello to know it. Stills seemed like a person who held his secrets close to his chest, and so did Lauren. Besides, Azarello, joined the force only a couple of years ago, was a new cop. Still, it was worth a try.

Outside the County, he took out his phone and saw a couple of unidentified calls. He smiled, and called his contractor. "Good morning, Finch," he greeted the eccentric billionaire, "you've been calling me."

"Yes," Finch answered with a great strain in his voice, almost struggling with words, "I _was_ needing your assistance," he went on, his words turning more stressed, "But I got it covered."

He chose to ignore the barb, but before he could ask what happened to his voice, Finch beat him to it, and asked his own question. "Where have you been, Mr. Reese?"

"On a little side project," John answered evasively, but Finch didn't buy it.

"That side project," the billionaire asked, "could it involve Ms. Fusco, Mr. Reese?"

"Could be," he answered with a shrug in his voice.

All in honesty he had expected a sort of Finch-like-comment that ended with another "Mr. Reese", but it didn't come. Instead, Finch said, "Detective Carter called me this morning."

He raised his eyebrows. "She called _you_?"

"I meant _Mr. Burdett_," Finch replied, with something like –he could swear—rolling eyes, "She wanted to know if I'm available to talk about the robbery you witnessed."

Oh. The good detective was really on the prowl, it seemed. He smiled a little. "What did you say?" he asked to Finch.

"What could I say?" the answer came in a harsh whisper, "We fixed a date for tomorrow." He paused for a second, "The detective seems like she might be a problem, Mr. Reese."

He laughed faintly, remembering their conversation on the walkie-talkie.

"_I keep looking for you, and I keep finding myself in some bad situations."_

"_You could always stop looking for me."_

"_Not an option."_

"It's the part of the game, Finch," he said then, "I'll deal with it."

"Very well," Finch muttered again with that strained tone, clearly unsatisfied, though the way his voice sounded, there seemed to be more to it.

"Did something happen?" he asked, curious, "You sound...like...in pain."

From the other side, he heard a low sigh. "I had to skip my medicine this morning."

"Uh—why?" he asked, this time suspicion straining his own tone. He could guess a million of reasons but with Finch nothing was a safe bet.

But Finch declared with an obvious tone that didn't leave any room for any bet. "Because I needed to get in Metropolitan Hospital Center."

"A new number came up?" John asked immediately, his spirit rising along his voice. It'd been a time since they had received a new number, specifically eight days since he had put Joey and his girlfriend on a bus and sent to start over, something he couldn't have done himself.

"What was the last time you had your check-up, Mr. Reese," Finch only asked, as a smile broke over his lips.

* * *

><p>Leaned against a glass panel wall of a building at the opposite side of the Metropolitan Hospital, John watched as Dr. Megan Tillman left the work, heading home.<p>

"Come on, grab a drink with us. Even workaholics need a night off," a colleague of her whined through his ear as they exited out of the hospital.

Tillman shook her head, as her steps never wavering, "Workaholics need a rest," she declined with a smile and said, "I'm going home and hitting the hay."

She took a turn to left, and John followed her, as asking to Finch, "Anybody at the hospital have a problem with the doctor?"

"No complaints," came Finch's answer as the same time John finished his question, the strain clearly lessened. "No malpractice lawsuits. Seems friendly, well-liked."

"So we've got no idea why the machine singled her out," John stated the obvious, crossing the Seventh Avenue fast, as the doctor quickened her pace.

"In other words?" Finch questioned, his tone suggesting the same thing he was thinking.

He quickened his own pace too, before he lost the doctor in the crowd. "In other words," he told Finch, his voice coloring with the _joy_ of the thing that he was going to declare, "We'll have to watch her round the clock to figure out what kind of trouble she's in."

"If you'd like a raise, Mr. Reese," said Finch in his ear, "all you have to do is ask."

Wordlessly, he snickered then looked at Tillman as she entered into her building. Eleven stories, mid-rise apartment with an elevator, and doorman in front of it. He stood at the opposite side of the street and decided to take some pictures first, and for that he needed a better view. He turned and walked around to the next apartment building to find the fire escape exit, and climbed on the ladder, and stationed himself at the landing that had a good view of her apartment.

From his left side, he took his camera and started taking pictures, but then his hand hesitated, seeing the good doctor suiting up in front of her vanity mirror. "Doctor has a 6am shift, right?" he asked to Finch.

"Yes," the other man answered, "Why?"

He smirked as Tillman carefully applied some lipstick on her lips. "Looks like the good doctor has changed her mind about going out," he said as the doctor left the bathroom, turning the lights off behind her. He jumped down off of the landing, and waited for the woman until she appeared in front of her apartment. Outside, she hailed a cab. Hastily doing the same, he turned in the next one, threw himself inside, and told the driver to follow the vehicle in front.

The taxi driver didn't. Slowly he turned around, and fixed him a stare, "You forgot something, pal," he said.

Deciding that he needed his own car, John took a fifty out of his pocket, and threw it at him. "Step on the gas."

They followed the doctor to a posh nightclub in the downtown around Financial District where bankers and CEO chilled out over their over-priced beverage and bad music. He read the name, "Linda's Den", as the doctor passed through the bodyguards in front of the door without a problem. Then just before he walked to the nightclub himself as well, he saw the bodyguards didn't let a guy pass through, saying inside is already full. He got it. He needed the three; looks, reservations, and company if you were a man who wasn't a regular, the universal "Three" for passing through the bodyguards that guarded the supposed heaven behind.

"Looks like I need company, Finch," he said, taking his phone out.

"Thought of someone, Mr. Reese?" the other man asked.

"Oh yeah," he said, just before he closed the line, "I'm gonna call you in a minute."

He stopped the conversation, and called for back-up. "Lauren," he started as soon as she picked up the line, "I need you at 55 Wall Street ASAP."

"Uh—" she said with a voice he deemed not sleepy. Good. "Why?" the detective asked.

"Because I need a date," he deadpanned, "and," he warned, "don't forget to suit up."

He closed the phone, and called again Finch. "Got it."

And there again, that tensed silence over the line, but unlike the morning, this time Finch broke it. "Am I correct in assuming you called Detective Fusco in, Mr. Reese?" he asked.

He shrugged. "I need a date."

Again, there was a pause over the line then Finch finally said, "I'm not sure I'm all that comfortable with your arrangement with Detective Fusco."

John contained a sigh. This conversation was something he had been expecting from some time. "She's an asset," he said.

"She's a corrupt police officer that tried to murder you," Finch instead pointed out the more obvious.

He shrugged again. "She's not the first person who's tried to kill me," he said, then assured, "She will stay in line," he paused, remembering what had happened the last time, and Azarello's comments, "mostly."

Finch didn't share his confidence, though. "I understand your detective is...a nice pet to keep, Mr. Reese," he warned, as John half snorted at his comment, "but sooner or later she'll bite you back."

"She will most definitely try, Finch," he said in response. She would definitely do that, and fail.

Two minutes after, a taxi parked along the opposite side of Linda's Den, and his nice pet, showing a generous amount of bare legs, stepped out. Okay, with the little black dress, killer heels, and blood-red lips, his dirty detective had surely suited up.

She strolled to him, smiling her smile then craned her neck to left to look at Linda's Den. Her eyes shifted to him, "Well, you've certainly upped yourself, Mr. Reese."

He gave her a fake smile back, then catching her elbow, he steered her toward the entrance. After they crossed the street, he lowered his arm, and wrapped it around her waist. She didn't react, her eyes just moved toward his for a second, another mocking smile appearing as they came in front of the bodyguards. Taking the lead, he inclined his head toward the massive man, as Lauren, gracefully slipping out of his grip, passed through them, her head up in the sky as if she hadn't noticed anyone around her.

The bodyguards didn't react, and he passed through them too without any problem. Walking in the corridor before they entered into hall, he gave her another wireless earpiece. She took it without any comment, and pushed it inside her left ear.

Linda's Den was bigger inside than outside, designed in purple and gray, modernist ambiance completed with the old elegance of classic woodwork. It was an odd combination, but as odd as it seemed to work. Together, they walked over the bar where Tillman was seated on a stool, slipping through the hanging crowd. All stools along the bar were already taken, so he tipped one of the waiters generously for a stool even before he asked for drinks. Pocketing the bill, the waiter disappeared then reappeared after a few seconds, and led them toward the left corner. Lauren slipped on the high bar stool he had provided in one fluid motion, and crossed her legs in a way no police officer should. Hovering over her seat, he fixed his eyes on her figure, and observed her. Posed on her stool with a practiced ease, more than the police officer she was, she looked like...a night lady. The undercover work was a part of task force, in some occasions, even a regular part of it, but her dossier had never indicated that she had had any kind of such training. Whatever skills she performed now, it was her own—nature talent.

Catching his lingering gaze, she raised her eyebrow as the bartender pushed their drinks over them. He picked up his, as his eyes moved for a second to Tillman, then back to her. "What's it?" she asked, leaning forward on her stool.

He smiled in response, and said, "My contractor has second thoughts about our—arrangement."

"Hmm," she hummed, a smile returning to her lips, as she took a sip from her own drink.

His eyes checked Tillman again. "He thinks you're a nice," he went on, "but dangerous pet to keep around." Her smile vanished, and her eyes turned cold. "And at the end, you will bite me back."

She pulled herself together quickly, her smile reappearing, "Some might think you're asking for it," she shot back. He smiled faintly. She laughed. "Admit it, Mr. Reese," she leaned toward him further, "I might not be the only dirty cop in town, _but _I'm the most fun."

He didn't respond, his eyes checking again Tillman as a man appeared next to her through the crowd. He inclined his head to check the guy closer, as Lauren did the same. "Who is she?"

"Someone who might need my help," he said shortly, as the man next to the doctor moved closer, and ran a finger over her upper leg. He straightened back, as Tillman pushed the guy's hand away curtly, and slid down off of her seat. The man's jacket opened a bit through the movement and he saw a glint of silver. "You saw it," Lauren asked, her back straightened as well.

He nodded, "Yes," he said, as the man followed the doctor with a half-drunken "hey baby." Despite the high heels she was wearing, Lauren jumped down off of her stool smoothly, and followed him quickly down at the stairs as he followed the other man and the doctor. He caught the man before he could reach to Tillman, and threw him in the men's restroom. Lauren followed them in, and turning back she locked the door.

He pushed the guy down on the ground. The guy whimpered, "What, what!" he held his arm over his face, as John crouched and reached to his jacket, "No—no—please, not my face, no-no—please-" the man cried, as he caught his throat.

He opened the jacket with the other, and saw the glint of silver again, of his phone. Giving a tsk, he let go of his throat, straightening his back slightly, and he pushed the jacket close.

"False alarm?" Lauren asked, hovering above his shoulder.

He didn't answer but stood up and passed by her to get out of the restroom. Before he did, he caught her with the corner of his eyes as she leaned over the man on the ground, and advised before following him out, "Don't forget to put some ice on that, sweetheart."

They climbed up to the second floor again, and he saw Tillman sliding through the crowd. Then he noticed the man. "What?" Next to him, Lauren asked, following his gaze, "What's it this time?"

"I've seen this guy before today."

She was skeptical. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, "He bumped into Tillman at the food truck today."

Lauren gave him a sideways look then shook her head. "You've been following her around the whole day, haven't you?"

He returned her look. She let out a sigh. "Never mind," Then asked, "So what?"

"Let me return the favor," he muttered, before he raised his drink up and walked on the guy. His body slightly bumped into the Wall Street guy, and his hand slipped through his pocket as the man stopped to find his balance again. The other man that was at his opposite lost his balance as well, and poured his drink over him as John slipped through all of them without any accident on his part, the wallet in his hand.

At the other side of the room, Lauren found him again as he went through the guy's wallet. He pulled out a driver license as Lauren looked at it over his shoulder. "Andrew Benton," she read the name.

His eyes caught the small bag inside, next to condoms, and he pulled it out, and stared at the white pills. "Oh," Lauren said.

His expression turning stiff, he gave a curt nod, and pushed the stuff inside his pocket. "Roofies," he said flatly, "date rape drug."

"I think we found your guy, Reese," Lauren said in response, her expression souring even more.

* * *

><p>Around three in the morning, Tillman left the nightclub, leaving Benton still inside. Following her outside, they stood in the open air, their ears still buzzing with the loud music that they had left behind. After they watched the doctor leave with the taxi, Lauren took a deep breath in, and started walking on the sidewalk, swinging her little shoulder bag in front of her. He followed her, shoving his hands in his pockets and found the small plastic bag he had thrown into his left pocket. Grimacing, he took out the cursed thing.<p>

Her eyes shifting toward it, Lauren let out a low sigh. "I guess we could take consolation at least knowing that the bastard can't rape anyone at least for tonight."

"At least," he grounded out.

She stopped, and turned to him. "I could take him in custody," she offered, her eyes moving toward the pills. "It's still not too late."

He shook his head. "It won't stick."

"No, it won't," she agreed, letting out another sigh, this time with a shrug, "not for this one. He seems to be a high one on the totem pole."

"We need to find something—sticker," he said, his eyes returning to the drug then he lifted his head up at her with a smile, and offered her the plastic bag. "How about getting him in his own game?"

She laughed, her hand reaching to it, "You always know how to get my interest."

Ten minutes later, she was sitting at the emptied bar, this time alone, as John stationed himself at the corner that had a clear sight of her. She picked up her scotch on the rocks, and took a careful sip, shifting herself at Benton's radar as smoothly as possible without being too hard. Expectedly, Benton's attention turned to her, so few had stayed behind after three in a week day, and Lauren admittedly was the best bet. Benton approached her, sliding on a stool wearily, his eyes first catching the scotch, then his watch. "Hard day is it?" he asked, ordering the same from the bartender.

With a half-smile, Lauren shook her head. "No, I'm just a girl with simple tastes."

Benton gave her a look, clearly sizing her up, his eyes staying a bit more on her designer dress and shoes that he knew for a fact, unlike the others she wore at work sometimes, weren't knock-offs. "Hard to believe that," Benton said.

She laughed in response, her soft laugh clear in his ear under the low lounge music. Three in the morning, even the exclusive nightclub had finished up partying. Lauren first looked at a couple leaving then turned her eyes at Benton. "So stranger," she started, "Three in the morning, sipping through a glass of whiskey..." She looked at him carefully, "What's your story?"

He shrugged. "Just wanted to keep company of a girl who seemed like she needed it," he told her with a smile, as his hands reached out to take the drink to demonstrate his words.

But before he could reach, Lauren took it, and snatched it out of his grip. She smiled at him, holding it up, as her fingers carefully dropped the drug in her palm, "An honorable way to spend some money on a drink," she offered it back to him, "You'll have my eternal gratitude," she said, as he took a few quick sips. She leaned toward him, her eyes fixed at him, "How I can return the favor then?"

Even Benton struggled for words at that as John raised his eyebrow. She wasn't losing any time, it was certain, John decided as she took the guy swiftly at his tie, and jumped down. "Come on," she urged Benton, letting the tie off, "let's go."

"Your place—?" Benton asked, falling beside her in the corridor, as John did the same.

Giving Benton a pointed look as if she was insulted, Lauren took a turn to left toward the restrooms. "My mother warned me about not to take strangers into my bed," she smiled down at him, opening the woman's restroom, and pushed him inside.

Behind the corner, John saw her stepping inside, too. "There are still a few minutes until the drug shows up its effect," John warned her after she got lost behind the door.

"Don't worry, I'll keep him distracted," he heard her murmur just before Benton asked, "So it's the restroom?"

He couldn't see her but could hear her shrug in her voice, "It's faster."

"I like your attitude," Benton shot back.

"I bet you do," came her answer in a sultry whisper.

Benton gave out a deep breath that echoed in his ear, and John wondered about what exactly was happening inside to elicit that kind of reaction, but he didn't need to wait longer, "What are you doing?"

"Just waiting," she answered with the same voice.

"Waiting what?"

"This." He heard a dropping sound, then Lauren talked to him clearly, "Mr. Reese, your package is ready."

When he walked into the restroom, he found her sitting on the marble sink, her legs crossed, while Benton was lying on the ground unconscious. When she saw him, she jumped down, and joined him as he picked up Benton from the floor. He stuffed the guy along his side, supporting his shoulder with his own arm. "Find if he has a card for a car key," he ordered to her, "there wasn't one in his wallet." She bent down and searched his pockets, and found one in his back pocket. He nodded, and they walked out to the corridor, Benton still tightly pressed against his side. One of the bodyguards sized them openly as Lauren gave the key card to the valet. John smiled at the bodyguard faintly, "Had too much drink," he said conversationally, "It was a hard day."

The man nodded, with the indifference of one who had seen that game a lot. Two seconds later, a black Porsche Panorama showed up, as Lauren's eyebrows almost rose over her hairline. She quickly collected herself after that, and helped him to stuff Benton inside the car's cramped back seats. It was a hard job as Benton was tall and backside was really scant but at the end they managed it. He sat on the driver seat, tipping the valet as Lauren slid over the passenger side.

While he drove off, she caressed the car's leather seat softly, her eyes moving back toward Benton for a second, "Why all the good catches have to be real sons of bitches," she commented under breath, laughing softly, her eyes this time sliding toward him. He pretended he hadn't heard it. She took the wallet, and started going through his stuff again. "East 78 at Madison Av," she read his address, "let's go."

He drove in silence, save the soft murmurs of the man in the back, as Lauren watched the city as it prepared itself finally for its sleep, only dogs and homeless left in the streets.

His apartment had all the luxury of the Upper Eastside, from little curious big brothers that Finch had taken care of to the doormen at the front. Speaking of which, the doormen, two men dressed in sad uniforms, stood up stiffly at the door, blocking the entrance, while his contractor finally broke his silence over his ear. "I assume you know how unnecessarily risky is what you're doing, Mr. Reese," the eccentric billionaire spoke with an irritated voice.

"Relax, Finch," John told him, "Take your medicine. I got this."

This time he didn't get a response. A sigh at the tip of his tongue, he ended their connection, and turned to Lauren, who had been hovering over his shoulder as he pulled out Benton out of the car. He propped the son of bitch again at his side, while Lauren smiled big at the doormen. "Can't hold his liquor to save himself," she said with a girly giggle, passing through them, but one of them blocked her way before she could step in.

He looked down at her. "Do you know where he lives, ma'am?" he asked kindly but the veiled meaning of his word was palpable.

Though she acted she hadn't understood it. "Of course," she flashed a smile at the man, and giggled again slyly, then dangled Benton's keys from her fingers.

But the man wasn't easy to be convinced. He looked at his friend, "I'll accompany you, ma'am."

She smiled again, not bothered. "Sure."

John walked inside behind her, the bodyguard following them just beside. He let them lead the way, as if making sure they knew the way, but Finch had already provided the building's blue prints. They came to his apartment without any problem, their steps soft over the red carpeted floor. In front of the door, the guard finally feeling satisfied left them alone, and rolling her eyes at the man's back, Lauren opened the door and stepped inside. Inside, John threw Benton over the white couch as Lauren threw her shoes away, as soon as she closed the door, letting out a soft sigh.

He stood up from the couch, and turned to Lauren who stood in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed at the opposite wall that covered with four pictures of Benton himself in black white pop-art style. She shook her head, smiling derisively, "Subtle."

"The guy loves to mark his territory," he commented with disgust, his eyes took all the details in, lingering on the black-white initials on the wall more. Then he turned to her, "Let's get to it."

She nodded back swiftly, and went to search the house as he turned up the computer in the living room. The studying area was how the house all was; modern, minimalist, tidy and clean, almost impeccable, and it didn't take an ex-CIA black ops operative to guess what kind obsessive compulsive behavior this man seemed to be supporting. "No liquor," Lauren observed flatly, padding around the room barefoot, closer to the police officer he knew once again, then she stopped opening one of the metallic cans on the kitchen island. She pulled out a few bags of white powder. "Looks like he's in more powerful stuff," she said, casting a look at the man, and muttered again, "Son of a bitch."

As he downloaded the contents of his computer to his thumb drive, he glanced at her. She had walked toward the man, and now stood hovering above him at the side of the couch. He turned to her completely. "Why do you think he's doing it?" she asked, but continued without waiting an answer, "He seems to have everything. Looks, money...smart, I presume..." She paused for a second, "Possibly born with more luck than both of us, a really high man on the pole. But look where he stands now."

In his mind, Kara's voice flashed in the darkness... _We crossed the line, and there is no going back, John. We're in the dark now._ "Sometimes you cross a line and end up at the other side of the pole."

She snapped her head at him, as if her comment took her by surprise, then she laughed softly. "Like us, Mr. Reese?"

He fixed his eyes at her. "I don't know," he said in return, "What lines you crossed, Lauren?"

The question put her off her sober mood, and the suave smirk appeared on her lips. "Oh, there were times when I used to run all over the pole, Mr. Reese," she whispered, her eyes glinting radiant with an irony he couldn't clearly see. "Someday, perhaps I'll tell you about it."

He smiled back in response, knowing she would never do it. The curt beep from the computer broke the silence between them, and his attention shifted there. He pulled back the flash drive and went to her as she arranged the room accordingly to their situation. She took one of the bags of cocaine and tore it with her teeth. Then she took a credit card from his wallet and dirtied it with traces of the powder at her fingertips. John started dealing with Benton. He took off his tie, took the hems of his shirt off of his pants as Lauren cast a glance at him. "Open his buttons, too," she told him, arranging three short glasses on the coffee table with little remnants of whiskey inside.

He nodded, and opened the buttons, then passed a hair through his hair, and mussed it. Just as he finished with him and straightened back, Lauren bent down, and kissed the man on the corner of lips, briefly touching, leaving a trace of red-blood behind. Then she straightened back, too, and regarded their handwork.

"Nice touch," he smirked at her with a slight inclination of head in approval.

She waved a hand around, "Had to leave a signature," she said.

"Yeah," he took at her elbow, "Let's go."

She slipped on her shoes again, and they left the wolf's lair. In the corridor, they walked rapidly, a new day so close to begin again. This time they walked out of the apartment without any problem, but one of the doormen asked a taxi before one of them could interrupt him. Lauren started opening her mouth, but catching her arm, he dragged her inside the taxi. The driver asked them the address as soon as they sat on the back seat, but Lauren kept her silence, her eyes casting him a quick glance before she returned it ahead.

Shaking his head, he told the driver her address. "W 133 Street on Amsterdam Avenue." She didn't react, at least not physically, but he still heard her sighing, her eyes pointedly fixed outside.

When they arrived at her apartment, he paid the fare and left the taxi with her. Turning to him, she raised her eyebrow in question. He shook his head again. "You really didn't think I'd use the same taxi to go where _I_ live, Lauren."

She let out a soft husky laugh, "Can't blame a girl for never give up on hoping." He looked at her. Leaning against her building's wall, she gave him her smile, radiant in its cockiness. "The usual etiquette here indicates that I ask you up for a drink," she went on suggestively, "but it's almost the dawn."

He reflected her smile back at her. "Good thing then it's your off day tomorrow."

She titled her head aside, her lips never wavering. "Careful, Mr. Reese. One might think you're getting fixated on _me_."

"Well, you're very interesting."

She laughed at that, hard. "Lots of competition around here between us dirty cops—" She opened the door, "Need to keep you entertained," and said before she slipped through the door, "See ya around."


	7. Chapter VI

_**Chapter VI – Alone**_

* * *

><p>The next day began around noon with the squall of her phone. She reached out for her bed stand, and took the shrilling thing. "What?" she barked out with rough sleep voice, as her other arm covered her eyes from the sunlight.<p>

"Fusco," a man's voice greeted her, as she straightened up from the bed. She had somehow expected to hear the husky whispering tone from the other side, but it was definitely a high pitched voice, and it had had her back straighten up with alert. She had recognized who that voice belonged to. The guard she had bribed at the County, and that meant... She let out a muttered curse. "Azarello had a visitor yesterday," the guard started.

Closing her eyes, she interrupted him. "Let me guess, a tall dark guy in a suit?"

"Yeah," her CI confirmed, and commented further, "looks very bad-ass."

She pretended she hadn't heard it. The son of bitch, the son of bitch, he was really sniffing around. "How long did he stay?"

"Ten minutes or so," the man answered, "fifteen tops."

She let out a sigh. "Can you get me what they talked about?" she asked, even if she knew he couldn't. The visitation room was strictly governed against any kind of surveillance for the privacy between the prisoner and the lawyers and visitors.

The guard told her the same. "No, you know I can't," he said, "But I can arrange a visit for you too, if you want."

She shook her head. That wouldn't do any good to her; for one thing, it'd give Azarello leverage over her, which was the last thing she needed at the moment. Azarello had joined the group later. He hadn't been with Stills when she had gone to him looking for help. Stills wouldn't have told him about their arrangement, the dead detective was much too paranoid for that, thanks god for small mercies. Besides, if she showed up in County, looking for Azarello, she had an inkling that it was going to end up with Reese, much like how his visit had ended up with her.

As he said, dirty cops were easy to come by in this city. "No," so she said, "No, it's okay. I'll look into it myself. Thanks." She closed the phone, and lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

He was getting close, too close, and if he kept it up, she knew sooner or later, no, sooner than later. he was going to find out the whole truth. She couldn't let that happen. She simply couldn't. She knew what she had to do. God have mercy on her, she had always known what she had to do.

_April, 1998_

_She sat on the chair at the opposite side of Adam in the interrogation room. She shouldn't be here, it was a violation of a dozen of regulations she could count at the first thought, but she had asked Stills, she had asked very nicely. From the other side, Adam smiled at her, with the same smile that was always on his lips. "Came to rub your victory at my face?"_

"_No," she said, almost in a whisper, shaking her head. She hadn't come to rejoice in her victory, if one could call it that, but she didn't know why she had come, either. She couldn't find any reason; she just wanted to...see him, for the last time. Perhaps she just wanted to have a closure, but she wasn't sure of what. "I wanted to see you, but I don't know why."_

_His hands still shackled, he leaned over the table. "I tell you why," he hissed, "you came to gloat."_

"_For what?" she hissed back too, and asked, "For winning?" She shook her head. "Do I look like to you I've won anything, Adam?"_

_He understood her words, she knew he did but he still didn't back down. "You tell me."_

_Again she shook her head. "You started this," she said in return, the derisiveness she felt tinting her voice, "And I ended it. But I didn't win." Pausing, she leaned forward him too. "I'm not winning, Adam. You just don't see it."_

_He looked at her carefully as a frown drew his eyebrows together. "Lauren, what did you do?" he asked, "What did you promise them?"_

_She continued as if he hadn't talked. "You've been so high on the pole. I was just trying to find my place on it. Was that a mistake?" she asked, shaking her head, "Was that a mistake wanting to go up, up and away?" She let out a deep breath, bowing her head. "We could have been friends, we could have been lovers," she muttered, "Look where we stand now..." her words trailed off. _

_But Adam completed it for her, "At the opposite sides of the pole." She lifted her head up at him. He asked again, "Lauren, what did you do?"_

"_I did what I had to do," she answered, "Mr. Thompkins used to say to win the game sometimes you need to lose a hand," she went on, "and that's what I did, Adam. I lost. I'm going back where I belong. I'm going down," she looked at him directly, "and I'm keeping my promise__—__" She stood up from the desk. "I'm taking you along with me."_

And she did, she had taken him down with her. In return, she had made a deal, sold a part of soul, and she was never going to regain it. She had accepted that, and she had always thought herself prepared; it had been her decision, her own mistake, but yet again she was facing another decision, another mistake.

Her phone squalled. She checked the screen, and with the unidentified number she knew he was calling. "Yes," she answered, trying to keep her voice calm and even despite the turmoil she was feeling inside.

"I need an expunged college report for Benton," he said as a way of greeting, the more than usual rasping tone in his voice indicating the anger under the careful composure. She could easily remember that tone, from how he had talked to Theresa's uncle. Whatever he had discovered from Benton's files, he had made his hatred toward Benton deeper. For that, she wasn't surprised, either.

"Couldn't it wait?" she asked even though she stuck the phone between her shoulder and ear, and started getting ready for the work. "It's my off day," she explained, "and I never show up at the office in my off day."

"There is a first time for everything," he murmured in her ear in disinterest, "and no, it can't wait, Lauren."

She let out a sigh. "I'm on my way." She closed the phone, and, taking her jacket, left her house. Then powers that be decided to make her life a lot more complicated.

Just outside her apartment, three men were waiting. Their postures didn't leave anything for speculation, they were trouble, and she knew who was in trouble. Her. The cartel had finally found her.

Without looking at them, she started walking toward her car, but one of them, the leader she supposed, cut her way. Then he smiled at her. "Good morning, detective," he greeted her with a heavy Mexican accent, as the other two moved around her, "how's your day?"

Her eyes traveled between the men, then settled back on the leader. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

The man let out a pleased laughter. "I'm Diaz," he answered, "and we're supposed to be drug dealers," he continued openly as the pleased timbres dropped off of his voice, instead turned flat, "except that a group of very foolish cops stole most of our product."

"I'm sorry," she said again, trying to unblock her way through the mass of bodies that circled her, "but I think you confused me with someone else." The men flanked at her sides. She gave out a sigh, looking at Diaz. "It's Detective Stills you need to look for."

The man smiled at again. "Well, detective," he said, taking a step closer, "Stills' disappeared, and the rest of your dirty cop friends are in jail." His look grew pointed. "That has left you on the hook for a million dollars worth of cocaine, I'm afraid, Lauren."

Shaking her head, she smiled at Diaz. "I don't have it."

"Of course," Diaz said in return, his eyes fixed at her, "we know Stills has it, but you see the problem, Lauren, we can't find him anywhere."

She didn't run her eyes away. "I don't know where he is," she told him slowly, her words slow and deliberate to cast more sincerity into her bold faced lie.

Diaz though at the other hand looked like he wasn't interested in it. "We run a business, detective, and tell me—" he asked with his heavy accent, getting to her even closer, "how can we run it if we let a police officer cross us and we do nothing about it?"

She contained a sigh. This was more about their image than the money. The world of criminal entrepreneurs was a hard one, and examples always had to make in order to avoid further misery in the future. And if she didn't do something soon enough, she was going to be the next example in the class. It was a matter of respect.

"We want our money back," Diaz announced, leaving the rest of the words unsaid, but the threats hung heavy in the air.

"I—I need time to collect that much money."

He nodded. "Two days, you have two days," he said, then his eyes found hers again, openly sizing her up. "You've come from a long way, detective," he said ambiguously, as she looked at him in silence. No, this man couldn't know about her and Stills, he couldn't. She wasn't even sure how he had learned about her, but here he was, talking like he knew. "Do what you must do," he finished his warning with a finality that ended all the discussions. Then he gave her a last look, "You're alone at this."

_April, 1998_

_Outside the interrogation room, Stills found her. "How victory tastes, sweetheart?" he asked her, with all smiles, and all._

_She didn't even bother for a comeback at that. Giving out a soft laugh, Stills caught her elbow, and led her outside, then toward the down levels, somewhere she was sure she wasn't supposed to be once again. The experience was still giving her that awkward feeling, not only because of what she had agreed to do but she had never seen that much of police together clustered in a place before. It was disorienting, making her conscious of her every step. For a moment, she wondered if this was how the rest of her life was going to be, always careful and attentive to the world outside._

_Stills opened a door at the basement, and pushed her inside. She understood what it was as soon as her foot stepped in. The evidence room. He had brought her to the evidence room. Without a word they walked to the left side, toward the end of one of the aisles, then stood in front of a shelf. He reached out for the top shelf and she read the name on top it. Adam Cavalier._

_She closed her eyes for a second, understanding coming closer. Stills opened the box, and took out the little package inside. He weighted it on his palm. "Your friend won't need it anymore," he said, laughing, and handed it to her. "Five pounces of cocaine, first class," he continued, "drop it into the dumpster I will tell you tonight." Putting the drug inside her bag, she nodded._

_He gave her a look. "Don't be smart," he warned, "if you try to cross us, you're done," he said, "like your friend over there." _

_Stiffly, she only nodded. "Good girl," Stills said, and she hated his tone, she hated the way he used endearments to dominate her, but she kept her mouth shut. She had made her choice, and she was going down now._

_She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her again. "And," Stills said, "If you get caught, Lauren," he said, "You know the drill."_

_Again, she nodded. "I don't know you, you don't know me," she said, then muttered to herself, "and I'm all alone."_

* * *

><p>Two hours later, sitting on one of the picnic tables, she was waiting for Reese in Riverside Park. He could help her, wasn't it what he did; he helped people, and right now she definitely needed some help. Cursing silently, she passed a hand through her hair, and pushed it over the opposite side of her forehead in frustration. God, he <em>must<em> help her. Or else, she was going to lose her life along her money.

Somehow she had an inkling that they weren't going to leave her alone even if she had given them the money. She knew of the Cartel too well for that. With a low grunt, she swept her hair at the other side. "Lauren," the rasping voice called from her back.

Where she sat, she jumped a little, and half swiveled, her legs already ready for a kick at reflex. She stopped herself at the last moment. "Easy there," Reese said mockingly, as she slid off of the table.

"God," she snapped, "do _not_ sneak up on me." She walked to him. "We have a problem," she said in heated whispers, almost walking into his personal space, "The Cartel found me this morning."

He raised his eyebrow. "Then _you_ have a problem," he told her with a smirk.

"Oh, God, please," she almost groaned, "stop it. The Toreros aren't a joke."

"I know," he said. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Spent a little time in Mexico."

"Great," she shot back, a derisive smile forming over lips, "Then I don't need to tell you what happens when someone crosses them."

He titled his head. "But you didn't cross them; Stills did."

This time she completely walked into his personal space, and hissed, " ."

"Benton's expunged report," he told her, without giving an inch, "did you bring it?"

"You know, I did," she shot back, holding the file. He reached for it, but she pulled it back, moving backward an inch. "Look, I do what you ask, but if you want me to continue as _your nice pet_," she hissed, "you _must _protect me."

He raised his eyebrows. "I think we've had this conversation before."

"Yes, yes, yes," she said in return, "There are a lot of dirty cops, and I can be easily replaced. But it takes time to recruit one," she went on, "Why would you bother?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, "Perhaps I'd find someone with less baggage?"

She gave him a killer look. "And where would be the fun in that?"

He returned her look, and said flatly, "The report, please." She didn't move her hand. He took a step closer, and whispered at her, holding his hand out, "I did say please, Lauren."

Closing her eyes, she slapped it on his open hand. "I thought you help people," she spat, her voice like venom.

He held up the file. "I do."

She shook her head at him, then with a last glare turned, and left.

Diaz was right, she was alone in this, and she was an idiot, an idiot to think anyone would actually care for her problems.

_February, 1999_

_Away from the cluster of people, sitting on a wooden bench, Stills found her in the waiting cell. She closed her eyes, and rushed toward him. For a moment, for a long moment, she had really thought he wasn't going to come down, and left her alone. She rushed to his side. "What's happening?" she asked, "why did you put me in with them?" She held the bars. "No one is telling me anything!"_

"_Shut your mouth!" Stills snapped at her, his voice barely raised, but she could still see the anger behind it, then she noticed it. Stills was afraid himself as well. "I'm pulling your name off reports but you will be seen in drug tests," he said, and asked, "You still take Ritalin, right?"_

_She shook her head agitated in protest. "No, no," she clutched the bars tighter, "no, you can't. I'll lose my scholarship—" she came closer to the bars. "You have to help me!"_

"_Help you?" he asked back, "I already did. You're not going to jail, no, you'll only lose your scholarship." She gave him a look, the hatred she felt narrowing her eyes into a slit. Stills only shook his head. "I warned you," he told her, "I warned you if you're caught, we don't know each other."_

"_And I'm all alone," she completed._

"_That's the rule of the game, Lauren," he said, "everyone is alone, and need to take care of himself."_

* * *

><p>When the night came, she stood in front of Diaz's door, her hand holding tightly the black briefcase stuffed with in her retirement money.<p>

She exhaled deeply, squared her shoulder back, and told herself she had managed to come out of worse situations, she had always found a way out. At the end, she always did; she always dealt with her problems, and she could do it again, one more time.

The only thing she needed was some courage, and a bit of luck, then everything was going to be okay. She raised her hand but before she knocked, a hand, a big calloused hand, caught her wrist. Jerking, she twirled around, her body already in the fight position then her eyes found the familiar blue eyes. For a moment, she couldn't hear anything but her own heart's beatings as it drummed madly in her chest. Then she smiled, genuinely, perhaps for the first time in ages. "You came..." she whispered.

He didn't say anything, only took the briefcase from her hand, and dragged her once again in front of the door. "Told you I'm the most fun," she told him, still smiling, but he didn't react. There was something in his posture, something that didn't seem right. Her smile dropping, she looked at him with narrowed eyes. "What's—" she started but he cut her off, banging the door with the briefcase.

"Don't worry, Lauren," he said, as he moved out of the view of the door, "I got this covered."

From the other side of the door, Diaz's voice came, "Detective... You got our money?"

She nodded. The door started opening, but before she could see Diaz behind, Reese stepped in the way, pushing her away toward the opposite wall, and stuck the briefcase inside the half-opened door.

Rushing to his side, she followed him inside, as he kicked the door open, and bolted inside.

His use of briefcase, she supposed, could be called—creative. With its side, he hit Diaz at his nose's bridge. The impact made the man howl in pain, holding his possibly broken nose, while the blood ran out of it in a flood. Reese had already turned to the other two. In a blur, he disarmed them, as she stood in the back ground, and let him do what he did the best.

As he threw one man at the far against the wall with a kick, the other one sneaked up on him from behind, his gun trained on his back. She reacted, and rushed to the man, at the same time that Reese turned around and hit the man's arm with the briefcase. The man screamed, as Lauren caught his other arm, and twisted it back, pulling him away to her, then threw him against the opposite wall. The man hit his head at the wall, and started lower along it, as Reese kicked him into unconsciousness. She let out a breath, turning toward Reese, and she saw him dropping the briefcase on the table. He opened it. She stopped dead when he started filling the briefcase with cocaine packages at the next table. "What are you doing?!" she exclaimed.

He continued throwing the packages into the briefcase. "_This_ is your idea of stopping them from killing me? Are you stealing from them?" she asked, walking toward him. She held his arm curtly. "For god's sake, stop it. Are you mad? What're you doing?"

He pulled his arm free, and pushed her away a bit. "I'm making it sticker—" he muttered, closing the briefcase, "If it'd make you feel better," he turned to the door, "it's for a good cause."

"Yes," she yelled after him, running to catch him, "like getting me killed!"

He craned his neck up, climbing the steps down, "I need Benton gone for good," he said, as she followed him down on the stairs.

Shaking her head in disgust, she threw her hands in the air. "For a moment, I really, really thought you actually came for me," she hissed, "What an idiot I was."

He stopped, and turned to her. She halted on her descent, too. Quickly, he took two steps up, and stood on her step, their chests brushed against each other. "He's a rapist, Lauren," he told her in curt whispers, "he drugs the girls, rapes them, and mocks them in the morning. He did the same thing to Doctor Tillman's sister. She killed herself, overdosing with her antidepressants. I need to stop this guy before Tillman does."

"That's great!" she exclaimed, balling her hand into fists, then shook them in front of him in her fury, "Couldn't you just find a way to do that without directly getting me at the top place at the Cartel's hit-list?!" she yelled at his face.

His lips turned down with a derisive smirk. "Nothing is more important than for your own good, is it?"

"Well, Mr. Reese, not every girl has someone like you looking over her, does she?" she spat in the same derisiveness, her own smirk cutting like a razor.

"He raped her sister," he hissed back.

"What do you think will happen to me when they find me?" she screamed, "They're going to torture me and/or rape me _before_ they kill me!" She pushed herself at his chest. "And I guarantee you I won't have the _luxury_ of being unconscious like those girls when it happens!"

She pushed his shoulder with her own, and continued her way down, but before she could take a step down, his hand caught her arm. "I won't let that happen to you."

She shook her head, her mouth turning down with her sniff, but she didn't bother herself with an answer.

* * *

><p>One hour later, they were in her parked car along the curb that Benton passed over every night to return his home. They sat in complete silence, tense and rigid in the air. Reese had told her to go home, but she had refused, saying it was her money—and life he was using for framing, so she stayed. Perhaps he just didn't see the point for another argument, or he was just feeling a bit of remorse because of what had happened on the staircase, he hadn't argued, and let her stay. She didn't know, and she didn't care.<p>

If she was going to get herself killed over this, she was going to make sure at least that son of bitch got what he deserved.

Upon seeing the familiar Porsche, Reese got out of the car as it stopped at the red light. Walking up to it, he tapped at the window, with a sincere smile she wanted to puke over. Benton rolled down his window. "What's the problem?" he asked, his voice fairly disinterested at whatever it might be.

Reese shrugged airily. "Oh, nothing, just this," he said before he punched him at his face, hard.

She came to his side, as he opened the door, and emptied the briefcase's contents over him, then threw the black bag next to him in the car, then he lowered the hand brake, and lowered to press the unconscious man's foot on the gas. He hastily moved back, and closed the door as the car launched forward then bumped at the street lamp. The air bag rose between Benton and the wheel, as the honk of car started shrill in the silence of the dark.

Reese turned, and walked away. Turning on her heels, she did the same.

The next morning, she found Reese at the opposite side of her precinct, glaring darkly at Benton who was just walking out of police station, surrounded by four lawyers. "What happened?" he rasped at her, "He's being released, why?"

She sniffed then shook her head. "I'd _really_ pegged you better than this," she said, her voice silky with derisiveness, "but I guess you're a guy after all, acting before you think." She tilted her head at the lawyers. "It takes more slime than a staged accident scene for those Ivy League guys to stick it to Benton." She gave him a final look, and said with all harsh mocking she could gather into her voice, before she started walking away, "Good job, Mr. Reese."

His voice stopped her. "Lauren, about Toreros—"

She cut him off, "You worry about Benton," she said, a smile appearing on her lips, "and your good people. I can take care of myself."

In the end, she always did...

_February, 1999_

_Inside the old car Mr. Tompkins used as long as she had known him, she explained, her eyes fixed outside, not looking at him. "Just came from coach. Says tomorrow they will suspend my scholarship. Then it'll take one week or so I guess until the school kicks me out."_

"_Did you talk with Stills?" Mr. Tompkins asked._

_She shook her head with a bitter smile. "No, no help from there. I'm alone in this. He left my name out of the police reports because he didn't want to get involved, but didn't do anything for drug tests. I can't get a recommendation from Colombia with those tagged along my name, and he knows it." She smiled further in bitterness. "I guess he likes me better desperate."_

"_Enough with self-pity, Lauren," Mr. Tompkins almost snapped in irritated tones, "You got dealt with a bad hand, and you made a mistake. That's life, you're not the first person who did make a mistake, either. But when that's happened, you don't whine. You simply shuffle the cards again, and start over."_

_She shook her head. "There is no starting over," she almost screamed, because he couldn't see, he couldn't understand what it meant, "Everything we do is recorded and collected," she shook the papers in her hand, "I can't get rid of these. Everything sticks, everything is stuck." She let out a sigh. "I'm stuck."_

"_Then find yourself a way out."_

She stopped in front of Diaz's apartment, and knocked at the door. The door opened, and Diaz, with his broken nose, and a gun trained at her head appeared. She smiled at him sweetly. "Hello, Diaz."

... She always found a way out.


	8. Chapter VII

_**Chapter VII – "Controlling the damage"**_

* * *

><p>"Tell me a reason why I shouldn't put a bullet inside that pretty head of yours?" Diaz asked, as she stood stiffly in the middle of his living room, his gun still pointed at her, just like he had proposed.<p>

"I don't know," she answered, shrugging at ease, "perhaps because if you did you'd never learn where your money and product is."

The Mexican man titled his head back. "Correction," he said, and asked again, "Why I shouldn't torture you to get the name out before I kill you?"

"That would be very—uncivilized, and a waste of time and labor," she answered. "I'm openly _offering_ information."

"Well, I'd like to cool myself off with someone who stole from me," he said in return.

"Correction," she shot back, "_I_ didn't steal anything from you. Two different men did, and as of the moment, I know where you can find one of them."

"And what do you want in return?"

Her eyes shifted toward the gun. "For starters, you can lower the gun...?" she offered. He didn't. She let out a sigh. "I only want peace," she said, then completed, as she cast a look at the man who held a garrote in his hands, "in one piece."

Diaz laughed under his breath then lowered his hand. He tilted his head at his other man, and the man behind her came to her side, and took her arm in a tight grip. He pulled a chair from the table nearby, and pushed her toward it.

"All right, Fusco, sing for me," he ordered after she caught a sure footing, "but don't forget. No funny business," he warned. "If this is some kind of a game, I'm gonna make you beg me to kill you."

Still keeping her composure, she nodded, then told them the address of Tillman's hospital. "I don't know when he will, but at some point in the night, he will show up there. Just wait for him."

Diaz nodded, tilting his head again at the man who held the garrote, "Get him," he ordered.

The man, tagging another three along with him, left the house. She left a low breath out, her shoulders sagging a bit. In the silence she told herself she had no choice. She was doing what she had to. She hoped it would be enough. The problem wasn't just doing what you had to do, no, the problem was once you did what you had to do no one let you do again what you wanted to do. After that life became just a pitiful attempt at damage control.

She decided that was what she was doing in the heart of things; damage control. She was controlling the damage, before it started controlling her, completely.

She let out another sigh then noticed it; guilt and remorse, slowly clawing at her consciousness, in the thorns of sighs, loaded breaths, and sagged shoulders. Her face stiffening, she squared her back, and shot off all emotions. She did what she had to do. She had had to find a way to stop them killing her, and she had done it. There was no place for guilt for trying to stay alive.

In a half hour, the men returned, with a hooded figure between their arms. For a moment, the scene seemed unreal. This wasn't the man she knew. He couldn't, he shouldn't have gotten caught like this, but everyone had a soft point. And this time his had been her.

They pushed him on the chair opposite of her in the middle of room, but unlike her, his hands and legs were tied with zip ties. Then Diaz pulled the hood off his face.

A few minutes after, he started stirring, and slowly woke up, his eyes blinking. He looked around for a second then his eyes spotted her. A smile slowly pulled out his cheeks. "You always take care of yourself, don't you, Lauren?"

She smiled. "Don't expect an apology for it," she said, "I did what I had to do."

He smiled further. "And look where _we_ stand now," he said, tilting his head between them, "at the opposite sides of the pole."

"Then nothing changed a lot, right?" she asked, "We've never been at the same side, Mr. Reese."

He looked at her. "John—" he told her, as something seized her chest, and left her out of breath, "my name, it's John."

Her eyes started to hurt as she smiled ruefully, "Guilt tripping me, huh?"

He shook his head. "It wouldn't work," he said, "People don't change, do they?"

Diaz who had been silently watching their show-down finally broke his silence, and laughed. "Well, I'm not sure of that, _John_," he said, his eyes shifting toward her, "Our little Lauren here really has come far." His eyes turned back to Reese. "You really should see what she can do on the pole _itself._"

She closed her eyes, exhaling a sharp breath. Diaz turned to her. "Come on, you think we couldn't find out?" he asked to her, "You'd left your print on Flare hard, sweetheart." She fixed her eyes at him in a glare. The man laughed, looking at Reese. "Don't worry, it doesn't matter. It's not like he's gonna live to tell the tale."

With that, he nodded at one of his men who had come with Reese. She half closed her eyes as the man stepped forward, and hit him. Again, and again, and again.

After a time, a blow threw him to the ground. She flinched, running her eyes away. The man then stopped and Diaz crouched in front of him, pulling out his own garrote from his pocket. "Where is our cocaine?" he asked, as if he was bored.

Reese let out a soft breath, and looked at Diaz. "I know you," he then murmured.

He strained the thin wire between his hands. "Then you know if you cross the Torero Cartel, you lose your head." He snapped the wire further as if to demonstrate his point.

She wanted to go away. She wanted to leave this place. Yes, she was the cause of the scene, but she didn't need to see it, she didn't need to watch it happen.

"I'm sorry," Reese muttered, and her head snapped at him. No, there was something wrong here. Reese shouldn't say sorry, forever in defiance, he just couldn't. She looked at him, carefully, then noticed the smirk over his lips.

Her eyes narrowed. "It's too late to apologize, my friend," Diaz said back, failing in reading what she had seen.

Reese let out a soft laughter along with a groan. "I'm sorry that you're gonna use your head."

Then slowly, in deep rasps, he talked in Spanish. She couldn't understand what he was saying, but she could clearly read Diaz's expressions. In a few seconds that Reese talked, she had seen shock, unbelief, and then for the last, fear cross the Mexican's face. "Is this true?" asked the man who had thrown her at the chair.

Diaz turned to him, and snapped, "Shut up. He's lying." He then turned to her. Like a flash, he caught her at her hair. "You promised," he hissed toward her, pulling her head backward, "You promised no funny business."

With the corner of her eyes, she saw Reese pulling his feet free from his ties. Quickly returning her attention to Diaz, she swore, "I didn't know—" she said, "I didn't even understand what he said."

Her last comment got him even more furious. He pulled her hair even harder, "You fucking bitch—" and started, but couldn't finish it, as John threw himself at him, dropping both of them on the ground.

The man next to her made an attempt toward them, but she quickly got in the way, and blocked him. His gun was already out, already pointed at her. Before he could act, she quickly caught his wrist. She raised his arm up, gripping the gun as his fingers tightened around the trigger. She raised her knee, and kicked him in his crotch. His fingers loosening, she caught the gun, then grabbed the back of his neck, and bent him toward the ground. When he doubled, she hit his back with her elbow, then grabbing a handful of his hair, she hit his head on the table.

Unconscious, he dropped on the floor. The gun in her hand, she turned to Reese, and found him crouched over Diaz, circled with three men, now unconscious, his hands _still_ tied. He stared at Diaz, his eyes cold and hard. "If I see you again around _us_," he spoke, strongly stressing the last word, his eyes never wavering from the other man, "you will lose your head."

Her grip on the gun loosened. Reese then turned to her, and gave her a look. "You really had a bad timing," he said, holding his tied hands to her.

He took her pocket knife out, and handed it to her. "Yeah?" she asked, taking the knife and cut off his ties, managing to rise an eyebrow.

"Tillman took Benton," he explained, taking the gun from her, "We need to find her before she does something she's not supposed to." He gave her a look. "Do you have your car?"

She stared at him. He must be joking. She had just almost gotten him killed. Now, he was talking like nothing happened. "Come on, let's go," he said, holding her arm when she didn't move, "And, Lauren, really, _don't_ do that again."

Suddenly it was too much. "What I was supposed to do, _John_?" she shot back, punctuating his name with a hiss, as he steered her out of the apartment. "You threw me into the lion's den."

"We're going to talk about it later," he said stiffly, as his hand pressed on his ear. "We need to find Tillman first. I need the coordinates of Tillman's van," he spoke to the other side of the connection than to her.

He paused for a second, then said, "No, everything is okay. Just a detain. I got it under control. Where is Tillman?" Another pause. "Got it." He finished his call, and caught her again by the arm. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" she asked, as they stepped outside. She opened her car, but this time he went for the driver's side.

"She's in a truck stop somewhere between Delacey and Oakville."

She sighed, and leaned her head against the headrest. "This is the weirdest day I've ever had," she muttered under her breath.

He didn't respond, and she really appreciated it.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, he parked at the parking lot of truck stop. As he got out of the car, he turned to her. "Stay here, I'll talk to Tillman," then he paused, "And, Lauren, <em>stay<em> here."

Her head still rested at the headrest, she nodded, eyes closed.

For three minutes, she waited in the same position then she started to get nervous. She was sitting duck here, open to assaults. She didn't think he had placed her in an ambush, that didn't sound like his style, but for goodness sake, just half an hour ago, she had sold him out.

Another two minutes passed, and she couldn't wait any longer. She stepped out, and carefully approached the diner. Outside, she saw their silhouettes, sitting at a table beside the window. She quickly walked to the diner, and pressed her back on the diner's wall. She followed the wall until she made out the familiar rasped whispers out of cluster of other sounds. "You probably wouldn't get caught. But the truth is you'll never really get away with it."

She stopped, and craned her neck up to catch a look of Tillman's head. She quickly bowed her head down. "Do you know who he is? What he's done?" the doctor asked.

The next she heard Reese's voice again. "I know all about Andrew Benton," he said. "I know all about you, Megan." He paused for a second. "I know you're a damn good doctor. I know that you've spent years of your life healing people. And I know if you do this," he continued, "If you murder this man in cold blood..." He halted again, and in the silence, Lauren heard a sob from the other woman, "It will kill you," Reese completed.

"You told me that you lost someone," Tillman said, as her head titled back at the sudden information, "Is that true? No response came from Reese, before Tillman started speaking again, questioning, taking his silence as a confirmation, much like she had done. "How can you sit there and tell me not to do something you know in your heart you would do too?" she asked.

"Because, unlike you, I know what happens when you take a life," this time he answered, his words were slow in his husky tones, but honest and true. "You lose a part of yourself. Not everything," he said, almost clarifying "Just the part that matters the most."

_Is that what happened to you, Mr. Reese,_ she asked herself as the doctor voiced the question out loud, but again, there was no response from him. Instead he said, "You don't have to do this. You can turn around ... right ...now."

"Mm-mm, he's seen me," the doctor objected, but she could already hear the defeat under her tone, despite what she said. "He's seen my face."

"Well, suppose I'll have a little talk with him," he assured her, "Trust me. It won't matter." The certainty of his voice didn't leave any room for any suspicion. He meant what he had said. That moment Lauren understood what this was all about. They were all damaged goods, and John Reese was now controlling the damage, too, in his way.

There were again sounds of sobs above her head. Carefully she tilted her head up and caught a glimpse of Tillman as she cried. Then she saw Reese reaching out the woman's hand gently, his fingertips softly brushing hers in encouragement. His hand turned up slightly, and he left it open next to hers. "Give me the keys to your van, Megan," he demanded gently.

Lauren bowed her head, and started walking away as the doctor's sobs quickened, defeat and ghosts of past catching upon her. Her mind foggy with thoughts and the bizarre events that they had lived throughout the day, she walked back to the car. Getting in passenger's side again, for a moment, she just wished she could have gone back in time, and stayed as a dancer. Her life definitely would have been less complicated.

Letting out another deep breath, she rested her head back, and closed her eyes. Two minutes later, he found her in the same position he had left her, nothing changing. And from a certain point, nothing had changed, either. Stepping out of the car, she gave a look at Tillman then at him. "My friend will take you back to your house," he said, leading the woman to the seat she had just vacated then straightened back. He gave her back her keys.

"Go to her house directly," he ordered as they walked around the car to the driver's seat, "and don't try to do small talk, either," he warned, "Just let her be."

She shrugged. "Whatever." She then stopped beside the door, and looked at him, her eyes intense and questioning. "What're you gonna do with Benton?"

He returned her look with the same intensity. "I'm going to make sure he won't hurt anyone anymore, Lauren," he told her, opening the door then pushed her inside. "Go now. We will talk later."

One hour later, she was finally back in her house, though instead of feeling the tranquility and security she had always felt in her safe haven, she only felt the same anxiety, boiling just under her skin. Her sleep was full of nightmares, nightmares she couldn't even remember what they were about. She spent the rest of the night jerking up into consciousness with widened eyes, out of breath, every muscle in her body aching with a ghost pain.

She turned around her bed, waiting the dawn finally come and chase away the shadows. A few hours later, it did, but shadows still lingered. Giving up on sleep, she got out of the bed, changed into her sports attires, and went jogging.

She ran around the empty streets, deserted roads, forgotten alleys, all New York a ghost town, the city that never sleeps finally going to a deep slumber.

Then at the North Entrance of Riverside Park, she saw the van, and the man standing up against it. She walked to him. "Hey," she greeted him then stopped before she asked how he had known where to find her. For the moment, it seemed unnecessary.

"Hey," he greeted her back. Then another van parked beside them on the road. Her eyes widened as she recognized Diaz as he stepped out of it.

Reese opened the van's door, and grabbed Benton at his shirt, and threw him down. "Here," he told Diaz, "as I promised, the man who took your stuff." He fixed his eyes at Diaz, giving his last command, "Bring him to Torreon Penitentiary. Warden Gustavo will know what to do with him."

Wordlessly, Diaz pointed his head at his men. They caught the whimpering man under their arm and dragged him inside their van. Diaz then nodded at him, not even looking at her direction, turned on his heels, and left.

The van vanished behind the horizon as they sat on the bench near the entrance. "What was that about?" she finally asked, the dawn breaking over the sky above.

"I made a choice," he simply said then they drifted into a silence that questions hung heavy in the air, but neither of them spoke of them. His words sounded so simple, so plain, so...uncomplicated when in reality they were the exact opposite.

They continued sitting in silence for a while, before she shook her head, and started, "Look, about today—" she turned to him, "You left me no choice."

He nodded. "I know," he said, again with a simplicity she wasn't sure what she could do with it. He didn't sound like he was sorry, nor was he apologizing, but he sounded sincere. "I've made the necessary arrangement," he continued. "You need a change of scenery, and I need you to do something else for me."

She looked at him in question. Instead of clarifying, he asked, "Do you think people can really change, Lauren?"

Turning back, she shrugged. "I don't know." She looked ahead. "Everything sticks, everything's stuck."

"Can't change the past."

"No, you can't," she agreed.

"Stills—" he then said, "He learned about your past," he continued, as she gave another breath out, "That's what he was threatening you with."

He didn't sound like he was looking for any confirmation, but she did anyways. "Can't run away from your past, either."

He nodded, standing up. He gave her a final look. "I'll see you around," he said before walking away.

Sitting on the bench motionless, she watched his retreating back.

* * *

><p><em>Here the end of the episode. I'm glad this part of the story is finally done because the good parts will hopefully start with Judgment. Which means, yes, I'm skipping Fix ;) Lauren would wait a bit longer to meet Ms. Morgan :)<em>


	9. Chapter VIII

_A/N: New episode; Judgement. Attention, I'm also posting two chapter at once._

_I also want to point out from here we will see also flash forwards, and the first one is at the end of this chapter. It's approximately three months before than the timeline of the prologue, which also marks the beginning of their "romance". __Enjoy, because this is the chapter finally their interactions starts changing, irrevocably._

_The last thing, while I was writing this done, Lana Del Rey's West Coast - Radio Mix was on, so if you want a soundtrack for this episode, I'd suggest that._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter VIII – "You born, you live, and you die."<strong>_

* * *

><p>It took three days before everything shifted back to normal, well, to <em>their<em> normal, the night in the park packed up and put in the dark corridors of memory with a practiced ease. On the third morning, John walked to a diner, and sat in the table at the opposite side of Finch who didn't bother acknowledging his arrival, instead reading the book on the table, while eating his breakfast.

"What's good here?" John asked.

Under his bowed head, Finch's eyes found his over the rim of his old-fashioned glasses. "That won't work, Mr. Reese," he said softly but curtly.

For the sake of the old game, John played the oblivious. "What won't?"

"Your interrogation techniques," the eccentric billionaire clarified with the same voice.

"I just asked an innocent question," he countered.

Finch shook his head in his stiff motions. "There is nothing innocent with you, Mr. Reese," he said, "You're trying to determine whether I come here often. Armed with that knowledge, you will try to figure out where I live."

John smiled at him. "You're paranoid, Finch."

The man's eyes turned into a glare. "Within good reason," he shot back evenly, closing his book, and pushed him the file that lay next to it. "Here, it's Flare's background check." John took the yellow folder, and opened it. "A gentlemen's club in Brooklyn," Finch continued as he took one of the photos that showed a two stories low-rise building, with bad painting and with a red sign unimaginatively decorated with flames of a rising sun. "She started in 1997 as a stage dancer, and stopped performing in 1999. Stage name..." the billionaire halted for a second, "Razor."

His eyebrow rising, John took another photo, and looked at the younger—_wilder_ version of Lauren as she leaned against a pole, clad in something looking like a leather swimsuit and high thigh boots. Razor was scripted with harsh cutting edges across the poster. Her foot propped against the pole, she looked directly at the lenses with that expression sometimes he had seen on her features. "Subtle," John said with a smirk, looking at the glinting metallic high heels, and pointed metallic finger nails.

"Only photo I could find from the posters," Finch sustained as he dropped it, "nothing else." Finch's look shifted toward the photo. "And it took reasonably long time to find even this."

"She probably dealt with all the—burning," he said with another smirk, "evidence." He took another photo from the file, where a Cheese Factory loomed behind her as she stood in front of it, together with twenty more people, clad in waitress uniforms. His eyebrow rose again. "What's this?"

"Before she started working in Flare, she was working in a Cheesecake Factory," Finch explained.

"Ah," dropped out of John's lips, "She didn't like the tips, I guess."

For a moment, only for a moment, Finch's lips pulled into a faint smile. "I found an old record. It seems like there was a situation with one of the customers," he said vaguely.

"What situation?"

"One night she kicked a customer to the ground, then sat on his chest and tried to stuff the toast she had brought him into his mouth."

John laughed. "What he didn't like it?"

"He said...," Finch quoted, taking a piece from his own toast, "'I just said it was too crunchy.' She gave the defense..."

John shifted through the file's contexts, and found the report. "It was a long day," he read her defense.

"She got a few weeks of social work penance, an anger management course for one month, and three thousand dollars substituted penalty," Finch concluded.

"Well, that explains why she wanted to make some quick money," John said, taking back the other photo.

"If someone saw this," Finch said in return, pushing his plate away, "her career would be destroyed."

John nodded. "Azarello said Stills had told him once he'd helped her out of a comprising situation," he said, and his eyes shifted toward the photos once again, "I guess someone found about this in the department later, and Stills helped her out, then started threatening her with it himself." He gave the other man a look. "Make sure to destroy everything, Finch. I don't want anyone threatening her with these."

Finch gave him a look, too, in return. "Don't want anyone threaten her except you, I presume?" he asked, sarcasm high in his tone.

John smirked again. "She's slippery enough as it is, Finch. No need to give her another reason to plot for my demise."

"You know, Mr. Reese," Finch continued with the same sarcasm, "it'd be a lot of easier if you'd found another pet with—less baggage," he commented, and John remembered his own words.

His smirk grew wider. "And where would be the fun in that?"

Without commenting further on that, the billionaire pushed another photo toward him on the table of an average man in his middle-ages. "In the meantime," Finch said, "I have another—photo for you—" he said, "less appealing than the last."

"A new number came up?"

Finch stood up. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Reese," he said, and looked at him over the edge of the table, "I'll see you later in the day."

Reese turned around and watched him as he limped away out of the diner on his good leg.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, John sat on the steps of a building in the Upper West Side and watched as Judge Gates left his home at the other side, saying good-bye to his son. "Born in South Boston, Law degree from NYU. Lives with his son," Finch started briefing him over the line.<p>

He looked at the woman next to father-son. "Where is the mother?" he asked.

"Dead," Finch answered, "from cancer. Last year."

His look shifted toward the father-son, "So his son is the only one he has left," he muttered then his attention turned to the young dark haired woman holding the boy's hand. "What about the nanny?"

"Christina Rojas," Finch sustained, "Gates hired her when his wife fell ill. She has been with them ever since."

John looked at the little boy who hugged the woman before he got on the school bus. "Kid sure likes her," he commented.

"Spends a lot of time with her," Finch said in return, "Judging by the hours she's billing, I'd say Gates was putting in long hours at the office."

John didn't comment, but he certainly understood the notion— throwing yourself into your work to cope with the loss of a loved one. Something, old and familiar, and cold, pinched in his chest, but ignoring it he focused on the subject at hand. "Do we have any idea why his number has signaled out?"

"Given that he seems like an honest Judge," Finch said, "I think it's easy to answer that, but remember," he warned, "he might be the perpetrator as much as the victim."

"Well," John said, standing up, "there is only one way to find out."

He stood at the sidewalk, and hailed the first passing taxi. "Courthouse," he told the driver, settling in the back seat, and taking out his phone. Closing the line with Finch, he sent a message to Lauren, telling her to come to Courthouse as well. Taking out her folder under his jacket, he laid it across his knees, and gave its contents a final look. It was the time to close that book.

At the Courthouse downtown, he got out of the taxi, and first went to a court room in which the judge was holding his first case in the morning, then moved around, placing his bugs. He then invited himself in his office, too, to finish up the surveillance.

Outside, he leaned against the railings at the left side of the magnificent Courthouse, in all its marble glory, and waited for Lauren to arrive.

Two minutes later, she appeared at the lowest steps, holding a Starbucks package in her left hand. Spotting him at upper sides, she started climbing the massive staircase in that effortlessly suave but sharp as a blade mannerism that he now knew now where it came from. For a moment, he understood why she had chosen Razor for her alter ego.

He smirked at her, when she stopped at his step. "Are you going to summon me all the time, Mr. Reese?" she asked as a way of greeting.

He pretended as if he hadn't heard her, and instead looked down at Starbucks package in her hand. "Brought me coffee?"

She shook her head with a derisive smile. "Your fan was so—_nice_ to me this morning," she almost spat "nice", settling next to him against the marble railing, "wanted to bring back something to her." He looked at her in questions. He had guessed Carter was going to give her a hard time, but he was hoping they would all be spared from that drama. "She heard rumors about me," Lauren explained shrugging.

Craning his neck to her side, he smiled at her. "Your reputation precedes you, Lauren."

In return, she gave him a look, deadly as a _razor._ The next moment, the judge appeared in front of the winged doors. Craning his head, he looked at the man. Lauren followed his gaze. "Who is he?" she asked.

"A judge," he answered vaguely.

She fixed him another look, but this time her eyes were laughing as her lips pulled out in a mocking smile. "Working on a new asset, hmm?" she asked, humming with a soft laughter, "First a captain, now a judge. Should I be worried?"

He didn't even bother to answer that. "Will you ever tell me how you dealt with Captain Womack, by the way?" she asked in good humor, letting out another breath-laugh, "It would surely help a couple of my problems," she commented, her eyes shifting toward the coffee bag she had put down on the perch next to her.

He looked at her. "What's Carter doing?" he asked. "Is she getting close?"

She held his eyes. "Ah, she keeps looking at that rather charming photo of yours," she answered, then paused for a second, her eyes carefully inspecting him. "Was there a particular reason you were sporting that hideous beard, _John_?" she asked, "or you just like the scenery in the train stations?"

He kept looking at her, but didn't answer. She laughed softly. "I guess you won't have any trouble next week for Halloween."

"Yeah," he shot back, "Who are you going to pretend to be, _Razor_?"

With her smile, she shook her head a little. "Ah, my reputation does really precede me." She rolled her eyes at his stiff look. "Don't be a prude,_John_," she again rolled his name around her tongue in a silky sarcasm, "a girl gotta eat."

"I'm more concerned about who might know of that appetite of yours, Lauren."

She smiled even sweeter. "Afraid someone might snitch your pet, Mr. Reese?"

He fixed a look at her. "It takes a lot of time to tame one."

Not affected a bit, she whispered mockingly, "Hope springs eternal in the man's heart."

His look turned even more serious. "I'm just trying to define if there will be any other—nuisances regarding you and your past, Lauren," he told her in hushed whispers as he extended the folder to her. "I'm _helping_ you."

"Ever the helpful one," she sniffed, taking the folder, and opened it. She quickly glanced at the photos inside, and shut it close. "Where did you find these?"

"My contractor did," he answered truthfully.

"Where?"

He shrugged. "I don't question his—sources."

"You should," she snapped, handing him back the folder, "I certainly didn't go through all that trouble just to be outed by your mysterious boss."

His eyebrows pulled into a frown. That was what he couldn't understand, what didn't fit in the pieces. There was a lost piece, a piece he was missing in the bigger picture, and he couldn't find it anywhere. When she talked about that prospect, her voice was sincere, the fear tinting her tone, but he wasn't sure about the reason.

Somehow he didn't believe she would care what other people might think, knowing what she used to do for money, but she was afraid of her career. And that was the place that didn't make sense. She never acted like being a cop was the purpose of her existence. She didn't even look like she enjoyed being a law enforcement officer. She had money, she had skills, she could easily leave the force and start anew, possibly even out of New York. But she was staying, and she was afraid of being outed, as well, and for that John didn't have an answer.

And it wasn't something he could get the answer by simply asking. Giving her a nod, he pulled back from the railing as Gates started leaving the Courthouse. "Keep a close eye on Carter," he ordered before he fell in the trail of the judge, "I'll call again."

_March, 2015_

_Like the last time, he found her watching her house in the dark, hidden behind a tree across the street. Silently, he approached her, and carefully put his hand over her shoulder. Her body tensed, her neck craned backward to see the source of interruption in her personal moment, then she relaxed upon seeing him. Despite everything, that, even that, was enough for the enormous mass that had sat in his chest to be lessened for a fraction. It wasn't much, but it was at least something. "Lauren, you shouldn't be here," he told her softly, carefully, afraid of her reaction, his eyes checking the security cameras in the block._

"_It's fine," she said in return, "I already checked them."_

_He shook his head, and went for another angle. "You're supposed to be resting," he said, "Your wound is still too fresh."_

_A small bitter laugh escaped from her. "I'll survive."_

_He let out a small sigh. "Lauren—"_

_She interrupted him, turning back. "I'm fine, it's fine," she said. "You don't need to worry." The door opened across the street, and Bran, holding Dog's collar, exited out of her former house. His attention shifted toward her. "There are really no second chances, are there, John?" she asked, her back turned to him._

"_No," he said, even though he wasn't sure he meant. "There is always a second chance."_

_She shook her head, and even with her back turned to him, he could see that rueful smile on her lips, "You say that because you're a good man, John, but I know you don't believe it, either." She paused for a second and exhaled softly. "You born, you live, and you die, remember?" She paused again. "Funny isn't it, it took me being officially dead to understand that I actually did have a good life..." She laughed. "Can't understand what something means to you before you lost it, can you?" she asked, acerbic in the harsh irony, "You only realized you were in love with Carter after she got herself killed."_

_As soon as the words left her mouth and hit him, he caught her elbow, and turned her to him. "Stop this," he hissed, pushing her against the tree. "You're not the only one who lost something."_

"_Am I not?" she asked, rising on her tiptoes to hiss the question at his face, "Detective Riley?" she asked, stressing his new alias pointedly, "Then why do I feel like I lost everything?"_

"_Those drugs you're taking have made you delirious. You don't know what you're talking about."_

"_Those drugs I'm taking make me numb," she shot back, "but I can't feel anything but pain—and it's your fault!" she accused, delirious in agony, "You had me believing in you, you had me believing in your bullshit—No second chances, not in this life time. You born, you live, and you die, the end of the story."_

_She tried to walk away, but he held her elbow and pulled her back. "Let off of me," she hit his chest with her balled hands, tried to fight out of his grip, "I said let me," she said again, tears forming in her eyes, then she ceased fighting, and hid her face, resting her forehead on his shoulder as she cried. "John, it gets easier?" she asked in a breathless whisper, "does it get any easier?"_

_He nodded. "Yes, yes it does."_

_She lifted her head, tears freely running over her cheeks. "I don't want it—" she shook her head, "I want my life back. I want to go back to my house, I want to fight with Bran about who will take Dog out. I want to bitch every morning before I go to my precinct. I don't want to teach those girls how to dance. I want to be your partner, I want to be a cop again!" she cried. "I want to feel better!"_

* * *

><p><em>"<em>You born, you live, and you die, the end of the story," is from Battlestar Galactica: Razor, which was of course the main inspiration for Lauren's alter the real "Razor Girl" is Molly from Necromancer by William Gibson.<br>__


	10. Chapter IX

_A/N: Updating two chapter at once._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter IX – "A Long Day"<strong>_

* * *

><p>Later in the night, Lauren returned home, feeling like crap. Letting out a loaded sigh, she dropped her key in the bowl on the counter in the hall, and threw her shoes off. Barefoot, she padded to her living room and fixed herself a strong drink.<p>

It had been a long day. Dealing with Reese was hard enough as it was, but when Carter had added into the mix, the game had upped to another level. The woman was a good detective, always suspicious and mindful, and she would have really appreciated it if the brunt of her suspicion wasn't focused on herself.

Even with just three days she had understood the truth; her "change of scenery" wasn't going to be something peaceful or pleasant.

Cursing again at the man who had brought her into this trouble, she dropped herself on the couch and took the folder he had given her. She opened the yellow dossier, and looked at the photos inside. _Razor_ was there of course with all of her sharp glory, but the photo that had taken her surprised the most had been the Cheesecake Factory snapshot. She took it, and looked at the girl. The girl who had looked back at her seemed so young, so...different. She had been ready to challenge the world, and she had been ready to believe that she could have won. She bit her lip until she drew blood, then threw the photo away with curt movement. Having Reese knowing that she had been worked in a strip club was bad enough, but him also knowing that she used to work as a waitress...was disturbing, like something of her had been violated. A dozen years ago she would have called it her innocence, but life had taught her better.

_November, 1997_

_Much like every bit of her body, her hands were sweating. Closing her eyes as sweat started to fill inside, she tightened her hands on the bars where Coach Matthews had hanged her in the air on the Cadillac reformer. The bounds around her ankles had started to cut her flesh even over the elastic material of the tights she was wearing. Her body shook violently as soon as she moved her muscles, and she let out a grunt close to a scream, her grip shaking on trembling muscles. "Hold it, hold it," the coach warned almost in disinterest as he sat under her on the tortuous device's mat, "If you drop, you'll do another fifty set on the mat."_

_Fifty set on the mat... She opened her eyes, her sight almost blackening, but the threat was enough motivation to straighten her clutch on the bars. _And, everything, that's what I want from you, everything._ She hadn't understood what exactly Coach Matthews had meant by those words, but now she knew. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip as if her life depended on it. Everything. If that was what it took, she was going to give it. Everything._

_Another five minutes later, the torture finished. The coach freed her from the bounds, and called Clara that was making her own set at the other side of gymnastic room. "Clara, help Lauren stretch," he ordered to the blonde girl then he turned back to her. "We need to straighten your muscles, more elasticity, and your posture needs more work...hmm..." he commented as she lay on her back on the mat, breathing hard, every muscle in her body aching, "Let's put another hour to your daily routine—"_

_Slightly moving up from the mat, she protested, "But, Coach, the midterms are coming—"_

_He cut her off with a head shake, "Never said it was gonna be easy, Lauren" he said, reminding her, "Everything, I want everything. Your first contest is coming too."_

_She nodded, and, giving her another look, he left. "And here I am again, thinking I just needed to run..." she muttered herself, still lying on her back._

"_Don't mind him," Clara's silky voice spoke somewhere above her head, "He just likes playing the hard guy."_

_She lifted her eyes upward, and saw Clara hovering above her at the head of Cadillac. "Well, he's very good at it," she said._

_The blonde girl moved around in her usual slick dancer movements, and came to her side. She took her leg, and started raising it upward, then bent it at her knee. "Thomas is having a party tonight at his place," she said, pressing her knee toward her chest, "Wanna come, kiddo?"_

_Clara, who was a senior in the School of Arts, had an annoying habit of calling everyone else who wasn't a senior kiddo. She hated it. The only person she was a kiddo to had been always Mr. Tompkins, but the alluring blonde girl was one of those few people who was actually nice to her, so, she wasn't making a big deal of it. As Clara dropped her left leg, and held the other one, she shook her head. "Can't. My shift starts late today, and I need to write a paper on Hammurabi."_

_Clara shook her head. "Girl, if you keep going like this," she twisted her leg to left until her muscles started screaming again, "you're going to burn yourself out."_

"_A girl gotta eat," she grunted as her hand clutched the mat and Clara twisted the leg further._

_There was a sudden pause as Clara dropped her leg, then her hand found hers. Her fingers left something in her palm. Her eyes finding Clara's, she gave the blonde girl a questioning look, then glanced down. A small pill. She looked at Clara again._

"_Ritalin," Clara explained, "I take it when I perform on the stage in the club," she said. "Helps me get through the day. Be careful, though. Drink water. It takes one day until it clears out of the body."_

_Struggling for words, she shook her head. "I—I don't do drugs."_

_Clara smiled sweetly. "It's not drugs," she said, "just something to give us enough energy to live through Coach Matthews."_

_She laughed, shaking her head, and straightened up in a sitting position on the mat. Then she returned the pill to her. "Thank you," she said, "but I can't. It's too dangerous. I can't lose my scholarship."_

_Shrugging, Clara turned around, saying "Your loss," and went away._

_She did the same. She took a quick shower, and headed to the library to find books on Hammurabi, and his rather unforgiving Law. Two hours later, she turned to her little place in the University Zone that she shared with two other students. Ron was silent and careful, an always mindful freshman in investment banking, and Marry, a friend of Clara, was a loud and obscene bitch. But it was originally her "place" so it was mostly her rules that passed in their little trio. Judging by the music from the left side of the house, it was clear Marry was preparing for the party tonight. Bypassing the open kitchen, she went directly to the living area, where behind the long folding screen was her "room". Quickly she got dressed in Cheesecake Factory's serving uniform, and left the house._

_She entered the restaurant from the back door, and found her usual co-worker in her shift, Leslie, as she took her full tray from one of the bell boys. "Hi—"Leslie greeted her, trying to support the heavy tray on her palm, "Busy night. All tables are taken," she said, and added just before she left the kitchen, "Oh, and yours is here too."_

"_Mine?" she asked, tying the dark green apron over the dark blue skirt._

"_That guy from your school," she answered through the door, "Tall with a good smile."_

_She groaned. She pushed the door open, and at a table near the windows, she saw him sitting alone, waiting for his order to be taken. Twice this week, and it wasn't even Friday yet. Her eyes darkened and she walked to his table purposefully. "What are you doing here, Adam?"_

_He lifted his head from the menu he was reading, and looked at her. "Currently?" he asked, "I'm waiting for a waitress take my order."_

_She tilted her head, and gave him a look. "Seriously, how old are you?"_

"_I'll just have my dinner, Lauren," he said in return, "Is there a problem?"_

_Her eyes traveled around the room. "You must hate this place."_

"_On the contrary, I like it enough," he said, then paused for a second, as his mouth turned down an inch, "not much, but quite enough." She looked at him again. "Look, if you don't feel comfortable serving me," he told her, a smile turning his mouth this time upward, "You could always ask your friend to tend my table."_

_Her lips pulled out in a sarcastic smile. "Have you decided, sir?" she asked in an imitation of a perfect waitress._

_His attention shifted down at the menu. "No, not yet—" he answered, "Do you have any recommendation?"_

"_I'm afraid we don't have anything that has arsenic inside."_

_He laughed. "I'll have a lasagna then."_

_She nodded, scratching on her note pad, then turned to leave._

"_Lauren," he called behind her, "Can I hope that you won't spit into my plate?"_

_She turned aside, and smirked at him. "No, you can't."_

_She took another two orders, and returned to the kitchen. She braced her hands on a table, and bowed her head, breathing deeply. God, she wished she could find a way to drive that son of a bitch out of her life completely. A hand rested on her shoulder. She craned her neck aside and saw Leslie looking at her. "Are you okay?" the other girl asked._

_She nodded. "It's the man at the six?" Leslie asked, "I think he likes you, Lauren."_

_She twirled around, and fixed the girl a look. "God, are you blind?" she hissed, "He's not here because he _likes _me, Leslie," she spat, "he's here to mock me."_

_Leslie looked at her as if she had grown a new head. "But—but—he's—done nothing—"she said, "he's always so kind to everyone."_

_She sniffed, "Courteous isn't he?" she asked, "Leslie, wake up, he's not kind to any of you. He just mocks you, us... He thinks we're all beneath him just because he's born on the right side of the city."_

_Leslie still looked at her with that expression. "I think...you're exaggerating."_

_She walked closer to her, "I'm not exaggerating, you're just stu.." she halted at the last minute, "...ready to buy his shit."_

"_Because I'm not as smart as you?" Leslie asked, clearly understanding what she had almost called her. She didn't answer. Leslie looked at her again. "You know, you say he thinks we're all beneath him, but do you think you're different, Lauren?" she asked, "You also think we're all beneath _you_."_

"_Leslie—" she started, but the other girl didn't let her finish._

_She pushed a French bread plate toward her over the table. "Your customer is waiting, Lauren," and with that, she left._

_Throwing her head back, she let out a low grunt, and took the plate._

_Leaving the kitchen, she walked to the table that had ordered the toast. She placed it in front of the overweight man who sat alone at his table, and turned with a "buon appetit", but his voice stopped her. "This is too much crunchy," he told her as she turned back. She looked at the half-brown toast, "I ordered a slightly crusted toast, but you brought me—" he shook his hand over the plate, "this."_

_Closing her eyes for a second, she let out a silent breath. Just great. Just fucking great. "I'll change it now, sir."_

_She picked up the plate, as the man gave her a look. "Don't give me the attitude, _lady_," he said the last mockingly, "your job is to bring me what I want in the exact way I want it."_

"_Yes, sir," she bit off, taking the plate, and deciding that she was _really_ going to spit on his toast. "I mean," the man went on, "How difficult could it be to bring a toast in the way I wanted...it's not that serving a customer is the hardest job in the world...See, very simple, a slightly crusted, not crunched toast, very easy...c.r.u.s.t.e.d—" he spelled the word, as she looked at him motionlessly, her hand still up in the air, "Can you think you _can_ manage to do it at least this time?"_

_She thought it was safe to say that she lost it at that moment. The strain had just too much stretched, and she snapped. The plate dropped from her hand, over his head._

"_You stupid bitch—" he started, standing up, but she didn't let him, with a kick she pushed him down._

_Her eyes seeing red, blood ringing in her ear, she sat on his swollen belly, taking the pieces of the toast from the floor. "I don't know," she said, "Let's see if I did manage to understand, your mightiness," she spat, and stuffed a piece in his mouth with each letter, "C.R.U.S.T.E.D— CRUSTED!" She cried, "CRUSTED!"_

_When they pulled her off of him, she lifted her head, but even in the all turmoil around her all she could see was him, leaned up against the window at his table, watching the whole scene with a laughing smirk __in the same pose, his legs slightly aside, his hands shoved into his pockets, impeccably everything she had ever hated and ever wanted from the first time she had known herself__._

* * *

><p>The next morning, the day started like how the days started in these days. In the first hour she came to 8th precinct, her phone buzzed. Throwing a glance at Carter who sat at the desk at the opposite side, she took it out. Carter's eyes followed her motions. She gave her a little smile. "It's my boyfriend," she explained, smiling, "Can't do without hearing from me every hour," she said, laughing, and opened the line.<p>

"Missed me again, honey?" she asked.

There was a pause over the line at first, then his voice said, as blunt as ever, "42nd Street, Bryant Park entrance," he ordered, "I'm waiting."

She closed the phone with another endearment, and stood up. Carter's eyebrows rose. "Need to check my crime scene," she explained, even though she _didn't_ need to. "Detective," she tipped her head at the older woman.

"Detective," Carter tipped her head back at her.

On the way to the park, she took a sandwich, for the sake of appearances. She sat on a table at the left side of the park, away from the cluster of the great lawn where there were still a couple of people that tried to benefit from the last remnants of the fall sun in the noon.

A few minutes later, he sat on the folded chair at the opposite side of her. He looked at her. Taking a bite from her sandwich, she smiled at him. "Is there anything?" she asked, munching.

Over the garbage of her sandwich packages, he handed her a plastic bag that had a shell from a bullet inside. "Ballistics," he only said.

She nodded, taking another bite, not even bothering to ask where he had found the slug. "Anything else?" she asked instead.

"Sniff around a bit to see if there have been any ransom kidnappings reported," he answered with another order, "White guys with crew cuts, one with long hair."

She gulped over her morsel, as her eyebrow rose. "What are they?" she asked.

He threw her a look. "Kidnappers, Lauren."

Putting the rest of her sandwich on the table, she shook her head. "Kidnapping is big news," she said, "I'd have heard something."

"What about Amber alerts?" he asked in returned.

"Child abduction?" she asked back, straightening in her seat, "Is that what we're dealing with this time?"

He raised his eyebrow, looking at her. "We?" he asked, "When did you become so enthusiastic?"

She held his stare. "Must have gotten up from the right side of the bed," she stated. He looked at her again. "You are aware that I'm still a cop, right?" She leaned forward on the table, "If _you_ are dealing with a gang who abducts children, you know it will be messy. You might need help."

His eyes sized her up and down, as if weighing what she had said. She knew he knew what she had said was right. And he knew she knew. Besides, despite some other stuff she had done, she was a good cop, and he knew that, too. He had chosen her. He stood up. "I have a tip. An address in Brooklyn," he said, walking away. "Let's go."

She followed him to her car. The drive to Brooklyn was in silence, like it usually was between them. In the silence she tried to fix the pieces together but nothing came up aside from the judge he had been following yesterday. So she asked, "Is this related to that judge?"

For a second he didn't talk. The silence made the inside of the car more tense, if that were possible then he flatly nodded. She wondered how they must have looked to an outside observer. They could talk about deadly threats and her failed attempts for his untimely demise between smirks and sarcastic remarks, as long as it related to them, but when it was someone else, his words were guarded better than Fort Knox.

For a moment, she understood why he didn't quite believe her when she had offered help, willingly. "Yes," he continued in his authentic rasped whisper, "Someone abducted his son."

Asking how he would have known this was useless. She knew the answer would mostly be something like "We had a tip." So she asked the most important question in an abduction case, "Why?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out Lauren," he answered.

"Haven't they made a contact yet?" she inquired further. He had been following the judge since yesterday, she didn't know when the child had been abducted but it was a good guess that it had happened some time yesterday.

Her eyes shifted toward him as he gave her a head shake. She looked for a sign of a fight in his face, but unlike the other times, free of any bruises or cuts, his face was quite intact. "Once, but they didn't clarify it," he answered, as she made a sudden brake when the car in front of her made a sudden brake as well.

They leaned forward with the impact and with the corner of her eyes she caught Reese wincing, clutching his left shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. "Did something happen to your shoulder?" she asked.

He gave her a look, one of those hardest he only reserved for when he was seriously pissed, but didn't reply. She didn't press further, either. They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge in its all massive metal glory in the familiar silence. Somewhere out there was a child there who had been abducted from the safety of his home, and thrown into a world he couldn't understand; frightened, and alone, and perhaps also in pain. Her hands tightened around the wheel, as Bran's face appeared in her mind like a flash in the darkness. She tried to imagine how she would feel if someone hurt Bran, and her mind went blank as her nails almost drew blood from her palms. She threw a side glance at Reese, and asked, "How old is he?"

He kept looking ahead, but still answered, with a voice as sharp as the heels and nails she had used to wear, "Nine."

Her hands tightened around the wheel further, but she didn't say anything back. There was nothing else to say. He was going to find that little man, and when he did, whoever had abducted him had better look for another planet to hide in, because he was going to do very bad things to them. Very, very bad things.

Suddenly she remembered Benton, and how Reese had looked when he had handed the sick bastard to the Cartel, and their conversation in the park, the conversation they had both decided on an unspoken deal as if it hadn't happened.

_Do you think people can change, Lauren?_

Her eyes shifted toward him again then back to the road. Perhaps, Adam had been right; people didn't change, whatever you do, you always return to where you belong.

Her face settling in, she stepped on the gas.

* * *

><p>Waiting in the alcove next to the address Reese had been provided, she watched the man as he walked from the other side of the street. "White guy with a crew cut," she said, her eyes sliding toward him.<p>

He nodded, his face squared, "I saw him before," he told her, before the man stepped into the mid-rise walk-up apartment.

As soon as their person of interest lost behind the door, Reese moved. She followed. Bypassing the front door, he walked around the block, and found the fire escape of the apartment. "Back door?" she asked.

"They're dangerous," he said, reaching out for the ladder that was above their heads, "We'll set up a trap."

She put her hand on his upper arm, and smirked at him. "Give me a hand," she said, positioning herself under the ladder.

This time there was no raised eyebrow or smirk for a response; he only laced his hands together. Holding his shoulder, she stepped on his open palm. He threw her up, creating the momentum for her to catch the fire ladder. She clutched the third step's bar, tightened her hands then pulled herself up. She climbed the rest of the way up to the landing then kicked the ladder back to him. A few seconds later, he appeared. They moved up to the floor where crew cut guy lived, then Reese opened the metal door for the floor above. Inside the apartment, they descended to the kidnapper's level.

Despite their having taken the long route, the guy still hadn't arrived but she could already hear his footsteps as he approached the house. Pushing her backward, Reese pointed to the slight corner at the hall, and she slipped in there, as he stationed himself at the opposite corner, in waiting.

The man appeared at the next second, turning already to right, his head bowed as he tried to pick out the key to the house from a heavy key ring. Not wasting any time, despite his bulking body mass, Reese moved away from his post as silent as a tiger, and clutched the guy from his shoulder blades.

Surprised, the man tried to turn around, and using the momentum, Reese threw him around toward her corner. Shaking on his legs, the man found his balance as soon as the act completed, his hand quickly drawing a pocketknife. Moving away from the corner, Lauren lifted her leg up in the air in a way even Coach Matthews would have been impressed and kicked the guy's hand. Taken by surprise, the blade dropped from his hand, as Reese punched his face.

The impact of his blow threw the guy backward, but he quickly collected himself, and charged at Reese, directly at his left shoulder. He held Reese at the shoulder, his nails pushing as Reese let out a grunt of pain. With the corner of her eyes, she saw the blood stain over the dark shirt he was wearing.

A curse on the tip of her tongue, she quickly moved around them, and coiled her right arm around the man's neck. The moment created the window of opportunity she was seeking. Reese twisted the guy's fingers on his shoulder as she tightened her arm, pulling him back.

In counterattack, the man threw his head back. When his head hit her forehead, for a moment all world went black, her legs shook as she lost her sure footing, then the next moment he turned aside, grabbed her at her side, and threw her above his shoulder, toward the staircase.

As she back flipped in the air above the stairwell, her hands already stretched out, she heard a Lauren from Reese as he moved toward her, throwing the guy away in his rush to catch before she fell seven levels down through the stairwell, but it wasn't needed. Like many times before she had done on the stage, her stretched out hands clutched the railings before it was too late, and using the momentum she spun herself back to the staircase and landed in a crouch at the last step.

She lifted her head up and found his eyes. A faint smirk played around his mouth, before he returned to the guy, and charged again. This time, the guy had no chance against Reese, who had been become very –heated at the moment. He blocked the guy's attacks in two simplistic but deadly moves, breaking his wrist with a third one that she recognized from Krav Maga defense classes. Then he threw the guy down at the staircase, already unconscious.

She leaned against the wall, her breath labored, her right side where the man had hit her burning in pain. Reese turned aside, and looked at her. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes found his left shoulder. "I could ask the same," she whispered, as she pulled his shirt aside to reveal a wound bleeding under the padding. "What happened here?"

"His friend missed this morning," he said, moving to the staircase. She neared toward him, too, looking downward at the man who was sprawled over the steps.

They climbed down to him. Crouching over him, he went through his pockets, and pulled out his wallet. He opened his shirt before he went through his stuff. All over his chest, she saw a big bird-like tattoo. She lifted her eyes up to Reese. "What's this?"

He didn't answer first, only pulled out an ID from the wallet. "Turski," he read, "Leon Josef, with an F," he said then concluded. "Szajka Pruszkeiw Dziewiec: SP-9."

She looked at him as if he had talked in another language, which basically was true. "What does it mean?" she asked.

"It's a nasty street gang from Eastern Europe," he answered.

Her eyebrow rose. "I didn't know we have a nasty street gang from Eastern Europe," she commented, her eyes fixed at him, "How do you know them?"

"They usually trade with the Pashtun Warlords," he said, though not quite answering her question. She wasn't surprised, either. "Guns for heroin," he continued, "They also run kidnappings in Warsaw." He looked at her, "Looks like they just opened up a new branch in New York, Detective."

"Joy," she shot back, standing up. "What are we doing with him?"

"Let's put him in your truck," he answered, taking the guy from the ground. She almost rolled her eyes. "I'll leave him in a safe house, then will question him later."

"Why not now?" she asked, as they stepped down, the man between them, supported by Reese, "Do you have better plans?"

He gave her a look. "I need to check on Judge."

She nodded. "I can take this guy in to custody."

He declined, shaking his head, "No, we can't involve police."

"You mean besides me?"

"You're more an independent asset," he shot back.

She laughed, as they fit him inside her trunk. The night had almost fallen. The act didn't cause them many problems, aside from a couple of quick stares, but people around here had already learned minding their own business. Curiosity might not kill the cat, but it'd cause some certain problems.

Half an hour later, they dropped the guy in an empty warehouse in the Bronx. She had made sure to memorize the address but she was already sure any investigation would end up in a dead end.

Outside, the warehouse, he nodded. "Go home, Lauren," he then told her, "I'll call if I need your further assistance."

Her jaw setting up for a fight, she shook her head. "I'm coming with you."

Without a word, he turned and started walking away. She rushed to him, and taking a step in front of him, blocked his way. "If you don't take me with you," she said with a sober tone, "I'll open a case myself." He looked at her sternly, but she didn't back down. "It'd take me an hour or so to find the judge."

Holding her eyes, he walked to her. "Lauren, are you threatening me?"

She shook her head, and corrected, "I'm asking you to _let_ me do my job."

"And since when have you become this interested in doing your job?"

"Since there is a missing kid whose chances are dropping every second we bitch at each other."

He gave her another look. "If this goes south because of something you do, Lauren, and that little boy gets hurt—"

She cut off his threat, "Yes, yes, yes, you will make me very sorry," she walked toward her car, "Let's go."

Half an hour later, they arrived at the judge's house. Before they stepped out the car, he gave her a look. "Don't tell him you're a cop," he warned, "The kidnappers said no cops. It would make him uneasy." She nodded. With his left hand, he opened the door, and for a split second winced again. His face soured, with something very akin to pain, but being the alpha man he was, nothing came out of him. Her eyes moved toward his shoulder and she saw that the blood over his shirt had become heavier. Getting out of the car, she went to the trunk and took the first-aid kit he had become accustomed to.

He gave her a look but didn't comment. They walked to the door. The judge she had seen earlier in the Courthouse opened the door, but the man certainly wasn't the same man she had seen yesterday. The man looked like he had aged a hundred years overnight. After giving her a suspicious look, he turned to Reese.

"Who is she?" the judge asked.

"She's—my independent asset," he answered, then made a move to get inside, "She's okay."

She gave the man a half faint smile she hoped that came across as trustworthy, and followed him inside too.

Sitting on a chair along the dining table in the living room, Reese looked at the judge. "We found a trail, but I need to ask you a few questions."

The Judge nodded, but she interrupted before he could continue. She set the first-aid kid on the table. "You need to tend this first," she said, as he looked at her, "you don't want to bleed over here, do you?" she asked.

The Judge looked at him, as well then his gaze grew heavier. "She's right," he said, "You're bleeding. What happened?"

He shook his head. "It's okay. An old scar opened," he pulled the first-aid kit toward himself, opening his shirt, "Judge, can you get me a mirror?"

The man gave them a look then left the room as Reese took off his shirt. Shifting aside, she turned her eyes away from his bare chest, and looked around. The Judge returned a few minutes later and handed Reese the mirror. Positioning himself over it, he took off his bloodied bandages with difficulty. The Judge's eyes traveled between them again, giving them unreadable looks. Letting a sigh out, she twisted aside again, and walked to Reese.

His eyebrows pulled into a frown as she pulled up a chair in front of him and sat down. Her hand reached out to his shoulder, and moved his away. Giving her a look, he gripped her fingers. "Don't make a fuss," she told him under her breath, her eyes lifting up toward his, "He's giving us those looks."

He looked at her at first as if he hadn't understood, then his eyes shifted toward the judge, then he got it. Inclining his head slightly, he let her.

Leaning toward him, she trained her eyes on the wound, as her fingers poked gently over his shoulder. The muscles under her fingertips throbbed as he let out a hiss over her face. She lifted her eyes upward, "This is gonna hurt."

A wave of a powerful strain emitting from his broad chest, he nodded stiffly. Lowering her eyes again, she ripped off the bandage. His head dropping ahead, he rasped, and she saw the open wound. She gulped. A few centimeters away and his shoulder would have had a very serious problem. "You were lucky," she said, carefully cleaning the wound.

"He had a bad aim," he said back.

"Again, you were lucky."

A ghost of a smile touched on his lips, before he shifted his attention toward the judge."Judge," he called, "About Christina—" he started.

"What about Christina?" the man asked, "What happened?" he asked again, "Don't tell me she's involved too."

Her eyes shifted toward the man as her hands went on probe Reese's shoulder. "No," he said, "no she isn't."

"Then what's the problem?" the other man asked.

"She's dead," Reese answered. Her hand hesitating, she looked at him, then at the judge who was looking like someone had just shot him at his chest. She leaned forward. "Did you really need to tell the news like that?" she whispered.

The judge dropped on the couch. "Oh my god," he muttered, "oh my god..." he chanted, "oh my god..."

She made a move toward him, but before she could say anything, the doorbell chimed. They first shared a look, their faces inches apart, then Reese stood up, and walked to the door. He spied the intruders through the looking glass as she walked to him. "Police," he whispered, walking back to the room, and put his shirt on. He walked to the judge. "Open the door," he said, "they're probably here because of Christina," he said, and instructed the stunned man, "Act like it's the first time you heard it, and said you didn't notice anything."

He buttoned up his shirt, sticking a clean padding over the wound as the judge sent the police away. The man returned with the same stunned expression. "Christina was, uh. She was, uh, with us the night that Elizabeth died," the man said, walking toward the table. He closed his eyes. "She was so good with Sam. She was just a kid," he said, "and they killed her in cold blood."

She walked toward the man. "Hey, he's alive, okay, he's alive," she told him in a soft tone she hoped sounded more reassuring than she was feeling, "as long as they need him, they can't hurt him."

The judge didn't appear to feel reassured at her words. "You don't know that," he said.

Reese stepped in front of him, his whole posture emitting that reassurance she had so flatly failed at it. "We know," he told the other man in a definite tone, "They need something from you, Judge, and we need to find out what it is. But I need your help." He walked closer to the man. "Have you ever heard of Szajka Pruszkeiw Dziewiec, SP-9?"

The stunned expression left its place to suspicion as the man's eyes narrowed, then he shook his head. "What are you," he asked, "ex-cop? FBI?"

Her attention shifted to Reese, but nothing could be read from his expression. "I have experience in situations like this," he told the other man, "That's all you need to know."

The judge though this time didn't buy it. "Yeah?" the man almost taunted, "Well, maybe you're not enough. Maybe I should call those officers back and tell them the truth."

Reese took another step toward the judge. "I know how to be invisible, the police and FBI don't." He paused, and fixed his eyes at the man. "But I'm going after your son, regardless," he informed, and she knew he was telling the truth. Whatever decision the judge would make, it wouldn't hinder Reese. He was going to find that child, or die while he tried. For a moment, the sudden truth left her breathless, her situation becoming even more palpable. She had gotten herself strictly tied to a man who didn't have simply a hero complex, but a hero complex and a death wish together at once.

She didn't know how much of it the judge had understood from the expression of his face, but she knew he understood enough. So did Reese. "Now," he said again, "have you ever heard of a gang called SP-9?"

"No," the judge answered, "Who are they?"

The landline chose to squall at that moment. Their attention shifted there. "That's them now," Reese said, walking toward it.

He opened the phone, and put the speakers on as he answered. Standing next to Reese, she listened to the conversation as the kidnappers demanded the judge to throw the case away regarding Angela Markham.

After he closed the phone, Reese immediately asked, "Who is Angela Markham?"

The judge looked confused. "She mowed down some guy in a parking garage," he answered, "It's a simple hit and run."

Taking his jacket from the chair, he caught her elbow, and steered her toward the door. "Well, now she's become the key to finding your son," he told the judge, before he opened the door, and pushed her out. "I'll be in contact, don't tell anyone waiting, and wait for my call," he said, and stepped outside next to her on the porch.

"Go back to your precinct," he ordered her, "look for the nanny's murder."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to talk to our friend in the warehouse, and learn about their connection to Angela Markham."

"I can—" she started, but he cut her off.

"No, I want you working on the nanny, and ballistics of the slugs I've given you today," he said, with a voice didn't leave any room for—negotiations. She nodded. He started climbing down the steps, "I'll call you."

"What if I found something—something important before you called me," she said behind his back, "and I can't reach you—" He turned to her, "—because you change your number more than an ex-husband."

He looked at her again with that stare; hawkish crystal eyes fixed on hers keenly then held out his hand. "Give me your phone," he ordered.

She dropped it on his open palm. He pressed a few places on the screen touch then handed the device back to her. "Call me if you find something," he amended before he started walking away.

For a second, she stared at his retreating back, and her eyes lowered toward her phone, where his number was entered under the label "the man in the suit".

A small smile forming on her lips, she walked to her car to drive to the 8th precinct. Yesterday had been a long day, and today was going to be even longer.

* * *

><p><em>I'd laughed a lot when John gave his number to Lionel in the show, and couldn't help but do it also here, especially the part with "the man in the suit." :D<em>

_I will complete the episode as soon as **persevera** sends me back the last chapter. Until then, take care._


	11. Chapter X

_**Chapter X- "Undisclosed Desires"**_

* * *

><p>She left the 8th precinct around three in the morning, only to return at seven in the morning. When she entered the office, she found Carter already there, hunched over the nanny's case. She let out a soft sigh-breath as she angled herself toward the other detective, and hovered over her desk. Carter lifted her head at her rather unsubtle interruption, the hint of irritation coloring a dark red over her chocolate brown cheeks. "Good morning, Detective," Carter said, moving her attention to her folder again, "started early today?"<p>

Lauren smiled, her eyes traveling around the almost empty office, "Someone has to," she said then her eyes fixed at the dead woman on the photos, and asked, "Caught a fresh one?"

Carter lifted her head slightly again. "My guy in the suit led me to another case," she answered, as Lauren suppressed a smile, "Nanny from the Bronx," Carter explained, "Murdered on her lunch break."

She grimaced. "Tough stuff," she said, and picked up a photo of the bullet Reese had dug out of the wall. "Shooter dug the slugs out, huh?" she questioned further to find out how much Carter exactly knew about the situation.

"Just one," the other detective answered, "and I'm not that sure if it was the shooter."

"Yeah?" she asked.

Carter nodded. "I think it was my man again."

She raised her eyebrow, surpassing another smile. The female detective had surely started to sound a little bit possessive. "Why would he do such a thing?"

Carter shook her shoulders. "I don't know," she answered, "Possibly to make his own investigation on ballistics."

Speaking of which...she gave the other woman a smile, taking out her phone, "Wait a moment, I need to call one of my CI—" she excused herself, and went to the other side of room.

She called "the man in the suit." He answered at the first ring. "What do you have for me?" he asked, almost exasperated.

"Nothing much, I'm afraid," she answered, "Your slug isn't in the system," she went on, "But I'm working on the surveillance feeds. Last night I discovered two security cameras of different buildings that have eyes on the street that can see her house. I might find something over there."

She sensed his nod over the line. "Good, keep me posted," he said but before he could close the line, she added, "There is something else," she said, "Carter...she's on the nanny's case."

"Is she?" he asked, almost surprised.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't feign shock, John," she said, her voice automatically taking the same tone whenever she used his first name, "she said "_her_ guy in the suit" led her to the case." She paused for a second, and commented, "She's really getting fixated at you, John."

_John_ didn't bother to answer that, only repeated, "keep me posted," then added, "and keep Carter out of my way."

Laughing, she closed the phone, and walked back to Carter. "So..." she asked, still hovering over the desk, "what do we got?

Lifting her head up, Carter gave her a look. "Primary's thinking romance gone bad," she said, "but those are always so messy. This is too clean."

She pointed the photo of the nanny and showed Carter the thing she had noticed last night. "Look at the circles on this entrance wound," she tapped the photo with her forefinger, "How many pissed-off boyfriends you know to buy a silencer?" she went on without waiting an answer from Carter, "Romance, my ass. Your killer is a pro."

This time Carter gave her an impressed look, and titled her head aside, a smirk appearing over the corner of her lips. "Pull up a chair."

And she did. She pulled up a chair, and sat next to her.

* * *

><p>She spent the entire day with Carter hunched over the photos from crime scenes and surveillance feeds, until her phone finally buzzed around ten pm. She took it out, letting out a breath, and read the message she had just received. "Got another address. 3185 Lorimer." Just that, nothing else, from "the man in the suit". She stood up. "Sorry, it's my CI. Gotta go," she turned to her desk under Carter's close scrutiny and took her gun before rushing out to the street.<p>

The message was a surprise as it was, him asking her help in that way, but apparently she had really proven herself as a trustworthy asset, or else he was really desperate. She quickly drove to the address, and found him lingering in front of the winged doors of the house at 3185. She walked to him. "What is it?" she asked, her eyes lifting up toward the building behind the locked bars to spot weak points and entrances.

"Our guy told me this is where they go to get paid," he explained.

"Could be where they hold Sam?" she asked.

"Could be," he answered, then his eyes turned to her. "This is why I asked you. If he's there, I want you to take him out as soon as we get inside. Your priority is him," he gave her another look, "only him."

Okay, more desperate than trusting, but if he really started trusting her with the life of that little boy, she knew it meant something. She just wasn't sure what. But it didn't matter, not now. "I'm here because of him."

He nodded then turned around, taking a lock picker out of his pocket. He opened the padlock at the gates in under a minute, as her eyes traveled around the room to detect any trouble. He pushed the bars open, and walked in the apartment. She followed him. Inside, he took out his gun, pulling off the safety, and drawing her Glock, she followed his example.

They covered their backs against the wall, their guns pointed below, ready to fire at the first glance of trouble. Next to him, she took careful steps on her tiptoes then caught a hint of silhouette around the corner. She raised her arm as a man with long hair appeared behind the corner, his arm lifted in the air, as well, his gun trained at them.

They pulled the triggers all at once. Bending down, she got in the cover as above her, Reese shot the guy at the same time at his shoulder. Moving away from her, he caught the guy at the collar of his jacket and pushed him against the wall in his classic move, resting his upper arm at his collarbone, pushing on the trachea.

The man whimpered in pain as Reese pressed his hand on the man's wound at the shoulder. "Payback," he told the guy, as Lauren understood that was the man who had shot him before, "Boy—" he asked, "Is he here?"

The man let out a whimpered "fuck off." He punched him in the face with the back of his gun and the man passed out. Reese dropped the unconscious man on the ground then titled his head at her. Taking in the formation just behind him, she raised her gun, ready for the action.

He kicked the door, but lowered his gun as soon as it opened. Rising on her tiptoes behind him, she peeked over his shoulder. "Oh."

He turned aside to her, their eyes sharing a confused look before they turned back to the room, toward the money, an awful lot of money, lying all around. "Well," she said, still eyeing the money, "we know now why they didn't ask for money."

* * *

><p>While they started stuffing the cash inside some garbage bags they had found in the house, John called his contractor. "Finch," he said over the phone as her head snapped up, her attention picked up for something even more interesting than a couple of million dollars lying around. Sensing her interest, he went on, his eyes fixed on her, "I just found out a way to make these guys hurt."<p>

He listened to other side for a couple of minutes then said, "And I just found a room full of small bills."

He touched his ear, and ended his conversation. He looked at her, and titled his head. "Come on," he said, "We're taking this to the warehouse."

She nodded. "Yeah, holding these, we could try to negotiate with them," she said, but he shook his head.

"There may be more where these came from," he said, "and Angela is possibly the key to lots more."

She raised her eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Angela," he explained, "First we thought her sleeping with the kidnapper, but she's in business with him. She works for a tech company that makes banking software, the kind that can spot money laundering."

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah," he said in return, "she's helping them to clean their money, and they kidnapped Sam to make her keep doing what she's doing."

"Makes sense," she agreed, nodding, "but the question is still...where is Sam?"

His eyes turned to the man that was resting in the room, tied to an armchair in the corner. "We'll find out," he answered, his eyes darkening to navy blue.

* * *

><p>For a change, this time they used his car, an old Ford Mustang in dark blue. All in honesty, it was a hideous thing, but she thought it was fitting to his personality.<p>

They drove to the warehouse, the man back in the trunk, as she got out her laptop to go through the surveillance feeds from the nanny's house.

Looking at the screen, she rubbed her neck, and made an uncommitted voice, glancing at the digital watch on the panel. Four in the morning. "God," she muttered, "I'd kill for a Ritalin right now."

His eyes shifted toward her from the road. "You're clean now," he announced with a voice that sounded like a fact. She wasn't surprised, given the amount of stuff he had managed to discover about her, she would have been surprised if he hadn't hacked into her dossier in the department. "Why did you start using it?" he asked.

Leaning backward, she let out a sigh. "Gentlemen clubs start after the gentle hours," she said, "and between that, and the school, and Coach Matthews, it was the only way to support me through the day."

"Your scholarship—?" he inquired further, "wasn't it a full scholarship?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head, "it was only paying for the school, the rest was on me—" She paused for a second before she continued, even though she wasn't sure of the reason for her explanation, "My background wasn't very impressive, so the coach could only arrange a partial scholarship."

"Did you start doing it to pay the substituted penalty?"

"No, not really," she answered, shrugging, not even a bit surprised that he knew of that _accident_, as well. "I just didn't want to spend my spare time having people bitch at me because their breads weren't crusted the way they wanted, but instead decided I could make some quick money." She smiled, almost ruefully, for a fraction. "And I thought if I was careful enough, no one would have discovered it."

He looked at her. "That was a—bold assumption."

"The delusions of youth..." she said, ruefulness taking a notch higher in her tone, "When you're young, you think you can do everything."

He nodded soberly, "You do."

She didn't answer, the moment becoming too much heavy for her tastes. She didn't know what kind of regrets and remorse that simple statement hid behind, but she had recognized his tone well enough to know when he was being sincere with someone, for real. She turned her eyes away and looked outside, letting the silence stretch between them, in the darkness of memories, Stills telling her, "don't get personal. This is just a job." But even he couldn't keep his own advice. At the end, he had taken things personal, and he had lost.

In the darkness, her eyes took the sight of the warehouse, suppressing the ghosts of the past, but pushing the present on, reality of their situation returning; a missing little boy and so little time left. Reese parked in front of the warehouse, and stepped out of the car with a barely contained energy. She did the same, feeling a bit glad this time at least that the check with reality didn't come with a cold shower from him. Then she realized, unlike the last time, she was really here at her own choice, not because he had _told_ her to do it.

The moment took her by surprise, as if something in their rather rocking relationship had shifted to something else. She didn't know what it had changed to, but she knew it had. Perhaps she had been wrong before. He wasn't that desperate, but had wanted to give her a second chance to prove herself to be something more than just a "useful asset". Her eyes turned to the left and she found him at the backside of the car, opening the trunk. Giving out a breath, she closed her eyes for a second, and focused on what was important—finding the boy, finding him before it was too late. Following Reese toward the rear of the vehicle, she pulled out the garbage bags from the backseats.

After she was done, she went to his side as he poured a bottle of water over the unconscious men inside the trunk. They came around whimpering. Reese looked at them. "Where's the boy?" he only asked.

The guy with the long hair, the one who had shot him at the shoulder answered, "I already told you. I don't know."

"How about your boss's name?" he asked, changing the direction of his questioning, "You know that yet?"

The long hair shook his head. "I got a family," he said, "You gonna kill them too? Because he will."

Instead of answering him, Reese looked at the guy they had caught before. Then his attention shifted back to the long hair. "You ever see two cats in a bag?" he asked.

"What?" the man answered.

He turned to the first man again, "You want out?" he said, cutting his bonds, "Get your boss's name." He closed the trunk without another word, as screams emitted from inside.

Letting out a breath, she went back to the passenger seat and turned on her computer. The groans and screams were louder inside the car, so much that she gave up and got out of the car, and sat on the ground with her legs crossed. She leaned back against the warehouse wall, supporting the computer over her crossed knees, as Reese sat next to her.

They sat in silence for a while, save for the groans and screams from the car, until she caught the sight of the man who had just tried to kill them on the screen. She poked Reese with her elbow. Giving her unreadable stare, he looked at her. Without shifting her attention away, she pointed to the computer. "Found our guy."

His eyes moved toward the screen, too, while Mr. Long Hair crossed the street, leaving the nanny's house and got inside his car. She took out her phone, and called Carter. "Carter, hey, are you still in the office?" she asked as soon as the line picked up.

"Yeah," Carter answered, proving herself as determined as they were, "Why?"

"My CI provided a plate number that might be related to the nanny case," she explained, and went on, "I can't come back to the precinct right now. Can you run it for me?"

"Okay," the other detective answered, "Give me the number."

She read the plate number from the screen, and said, "Text me when you get a name," she paused for a second, "Thanks."

Half of an hour later, the voices from the trunk stopped, all slipping into silence. They shared a look before Reese stood up and opened the trunk. Putting the computer aside, she followed him. "I learned it," the other man said, giving him hopeful eyes, "Jarek Koska."

True to his words, Reese held the man from his upper arm and threw him out with a curt movement as the same time her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. "Coldfield Holdings," she read the message, and recognized the address that Reese had sent to her earlier in the night as their head office. Bingo.

She walked back to him as he opened up his connection again to his boss. "Finch, got a name for you. Jarek Koska. Word is he's the boss."

He didn't speak for a minute, then commented, "If Koska's using a shell corporation, it could take hours to find it," he said, his eyes turning up in the sky in the approaching dawn, "They will hold the court this morning."

She understood they needed the key word to filter the data. "Coldfield," she said, showing him the message, "the car he uses belongs to that company."

He nodded. "Finch, try Coldfield." There was silence from him again before he rasped, "That's them! Send me the address." He touched his ear again and closed the line.

The next moment, his phone beeped. He took it out and opened up the message. "413 W 83rd St," she read, hovering above his shoulder, "That's somewhere not very far away from the Judge's house."

He checked his phone again. "It's an abandoned church," he said, pocketing the phone, "Let's go."

Before she followed him, she looked at the guy who was eating a hamburger next to the car. Without answering her, he walked to the guy and punched him. The guy fell on the ground unconsciously. He went back to the trunk, pulling the other guy out, and settled them against the wall she had been sitting, tied with zip ties.

Half an hour later, the dawn broke and they arrived at the church under a newly born sun. Before they entered he cast at her a look, as she drew her gun out and told her again, "Grab Sam, and leave. Understood?"

Stiffly she nodded. Before he made another move, he touched his ear. "Finch, if you don't hear from us in four minutes, call 911," he told to the mysterious man at the other side, "Send them here, and tell them about Sam."

They shared another look before he started walking, her on his trail, the guns drawn and ready. Pressing down the myriad feelings she couldn't classify that were running in her blood in a turmoil, she tried to focus on what was important...finding Sam, before it was too late, not again, not another one. _Don't get personal. This is just a job._

Reese took a step in. She mimicked the action, almost shaking her head to chase away the ghosts of the past, but suddenly he stopped as she almost hit him at the back.

She stepped aside, and looked in as Reese kicked the door in his fury, letting out a guttural scream. She couldn't, she couldn't even open her mouth and make a sound; cast off of marble, she only could look at the empty church, no sight of anyone.

_August, 1999_

_Outside the precinct, she stood, leaning against the cold brick wall. She wanted to do so much; scream, cry, or at least pray, but the only thing she managed was to take out a deep breath from her cigarette. "Don't worry, it gets easier," Stills said somewhere from her right side. She craned her neck and looked at him as he stepped out of the precinct, and walked toward her. "The first time is always the hardest."_

_She took another breath, lighting the end of her cigarette, a fiery red flash, as if to lighten the darkness around, and as if to reach out for a little bit mercy, she asked, "Do you—think we would have—"_

_Stills didn't even let her complete the question. He shook his head with all of his seriousness. "Don't do it, Lauren," he said, the hidden warning edging his voice, "Don't get personal. This is just a job."_

* * *

><p>An hour later, they were sitting against the railings where they had sat two days ago, watching as Angela Markham climbed down the massive staircase with a big smile, running away from the Lady Justice. Her eyes followed the blonde woman as she talked happily to her phone and the judge appeared on the staircase as well, looking devastated, his world crumbled down into pieces. Next to her, Reese got tenser. Lauren shifted her eyes at him.<p>

"Perhaps," she said with a voice that didn't sound anywhere close to convincing as the judge took his phone to his ear, "Perhaps they will have some mercy. They will release the boy and leave them alone." Her eyes turned again to the judge. "He did what they asked."

Reese shook his head. "Scorched earth policy," he said, "They will clean up and cover their tracks as soon as they get what they want."

She craned her neck to look at him. "We need to warn him. He's going to walk into a trap."

He shook his head again. "He won't listen. He's his son, the only thing he has left in the world."

"There must be something we should do!" she objected fiercely, "We can't let him walk into death!"

Turning aside, he gave her that look again. Then as if he had just made another decision, he straightened up. "We won't," he said, determination hardening his voice, "Come, let's go."

* * *

><p>Over the passenger seat, she threw a glance back at the gagged woman in the back seat. This wasn't exactly what had been in her mind when she had said they should have done something. She cast another glance at the woman. "So, what's the plan? We abducted her, so what?" she asked, "Are we just going to walk in?"<p>

"Yeah," he simply answered, his attention stiffly fixed on the road.

"And you say my plans are bold," she muttered under her breath, taking out her Glock as he parked along the marina where the meeting was going to be hold. She hadn't asked how he had reasoned that out. She figured it wasn't important. Not now.

Stiffly, they walked toward the parking lot of the marina, and at the other side of an open air garage, the scene they had been dreading finally greeted them—the little boy they had been trying to save for two days held at gun point in front of his father. "Ten," Reese counted down the men, his raspy voice edged with the violence, cutting like a razor, then he gave her a last look before she started moving around the other side. "Lauren," he started with the same tone, but she cut him off.

"I'll grab Sam and leave," she repeated what he had told her earlier, her eyes shifting for a fraction toward the men. "I won't let anything happen to him, I promise," she said, turning back to him, then without waiting his answer, she turned around and moved away.

Hiding behind the parked cars, she neared the men holding the little boy as Reese walked out openly toward the company, then stationed herself at the back of Koska. Where she stood, she could clearly see Sam, looking battered but yet still, hopeful, and with that sight, the turmoil inside her finally settled in, her mind finally narrowed and focused as her imperative got real. Battered and scared, he was still alive, and there was still time. Her eyes traveled between the men, making a quick survey for the time when the heat would turn up, as Reese appeared behind a car, holding Angela close by gunpoint.

Confused, the other man looked at him. "What's this about?" the money launderer asked, looking at Angela, "Who are you?"

Reese answered, though not the man's question. "Your name is Jarek Koska," he said, walking toward them, "Your bank account number is 127-834-0102. Last year, you laundered at least 400 million to clients including MS-13, the Sinaloa Cartel and the government of North Korea."

Then suddenly her focus slipped, the reality kicking back again, swallowing the rest of Reese's words. The reality was that she was crossing a border, crossing another cartel once again, playing the hero. That was the exact thing Stills had warned her about, and whether she liked it or not, the dead detective had been right. She was getting personal, and in their profession, it never boded well, _never_. Her eyes traveled above the men and spotted Reese. That man had a death wish, she had become certain of it, but she didn't. She loved living. Perhaps that had been always her first fault; she loved living a bit too much.

But there was Sam over there, too, with a gun pointed at his head, with a man who had every intention of pulling it. Her eyes shifted toward him again, and his sight once again was enough to clear any doubt away from her head. She was here because this was her job. She was just doing her job.

"The operation's burnt. Shoot them all," she heard Koska saying.

Her mind closed off, she leaped from her hiding place, already shooting, as Reese did the same from the other side, her eyes solely focused on Sam. Three of the men taken surprised by the sudden crossfire went down, and using the window of opportunity, she zigzagged toward Sam. She grabbed the boy, hovering over his small body, then jumped toward a car and rolled them over the hood to the other side. As sudden as it started, there was silence, the greasy smoke of gunpowder in the air teasing the throat. Then she heard his voice in her ear through the wireless. "Lauren, is he okay?"

For a second, she looked ahead, blood ringing in her ear, the question echoing in her mind then her eyes found the boy. "Yes, yes, he is," she said, as her lips started drawing out in a sincere smile.

* * *

><p>The next morning she went to the office, feeling she could sleep for days. But there were still loose ends that she needed to tie, so she got up around nine in the morning, got dressed and walked into 8th Precinct.<p>

Sitting on the chair, she pressed the back of her hand over her mouth as her eyes searched for Carter. She couldn't find the other detective anywhere. Perhaps she had taken off a slow morning, too, she guessed. It had been a long day for her as well, she knew.

She turned to her computer, opened up a few folders, then a coffee cup placed in front of her, as Carter gave her a smile before she went to her own desk at the opposite side. "Morning, Detective."

Her eyes shifted toward the coffee, then back to Carter, as a smile appeared, "Morning," she only said back.

Around noon she left the precinct and walked to Central Park, where the Judge and his son were playing football, rather lamely. Reese was there, too, watching the judge and Sam closely from a few feet away. The glances he was drawing from the crowd were almost comical. In the cluster of people who were in their regular every day clothes, his sharply cut suit was more misfit than usual, his figure secluded like a misplaced piece in a complete puzzle that no one knew what to do with it. He was smiling when he watched the father and son but his face bore an expression Lauren wasn't sure how to read. There was surely satisfaction along the lines drawn over his lips and his eyes, but she could still see the shades in his eyes. "Hello, Lauren," he told her, when she leaned against a massive tree, away from the judge's sight. She figured it was better this way, staying out the picture, much like how Reese was possibly going to do in a minute. The realization wasn't sudden, or bolting, but quite the opposite. It was like it was already there, in her cognitive consciousness, ready to find out and recognized, and recognize it, she did. They didn't belong here, where families played with their loved ones under the sunlight. They belonged to the other side, where the dark things always tried to slip through, but in this world they were always going to be misfits that stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Hello, Mr. Reese," she returned his greeting, propping the sole of her right foot on the tree, and moving her eyes away from the families toward him.

"Tied everything with Carter?" he asked.

She nodded, even though his attention was still fixed at the father-and-son. "Yeah, everything is fine. She's trying to connect all the guys we had left in the apartment in the Brooklyn."

"Good," he said, "Don't let her find anything."

"You know I won't," she said, and stopped, as the judge leaving his son came to his side. Twisting aside where she was hidden, she saw the judge giving Reese a look. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

She smiled, as he answered, "Yeah, I'm, uh, not great at keeping in touch with people."

"I don't know how to thank you," the judge said.

"You don't need to say anything," Reese said back, "I'd prefer it actually."

For a moment, the judge didn't speak, looking at him carefully, then started, "Look, you know how grateful I am. I _really_ don't know how to thank you, you and your friend. You saved Sam," he continued, but she had already sensed a "but" in his next words. As if the man did the same, he paused for a second, letting a deep breath out as Reese stood up motionless, waiting him to continue. Letting another breath out, the judge did, "I don't know exactly what you do or how you're doing it," he said, "but if people ever find out, when they find out," he amended, "you know there won't be anything I can do to protect you."

Still in silence, Reese looked at the other man for a moment then a smirk played at the corner of his lips again. "Go play with your son," he said, as she smiled. Turning back, Reese then finally moved, and walked toward her behind the tree.

Her lips held her smile, but she didn't move in her pose, her arms still crossed over her chest, her leg propped against the tree, but only shifted her eyes toward him. "He's going to help," she then declared.

"Is he?" he asked, his pose wasn't wavering either, "He just said otherwise."

She tilted her head, letting out a low sigh. "Read between the lines," she chided mockingly, "You've just recruited a judge to your cause." This time he smirked at her. "Ah," she said, "But of course...that was your purpose from the beginning, wasn't it?"

"Well, different approach is needed for different assets," he shot back.

Her lips curved up further as she finally moved away from her post. "Yeah, threats don't work on everyone like they do on me," she retorted, passing him.

They started walking toward the first exit. "Can I ask you a question, Lauren?" he suddenly asked.

She briefly halted on her steps, looking at him then resumed walking. "Just the fact that you asked me to ask a question says I should say no..." she muttered, then gave him a look, "What's it?"

"When Stills threatened you, why did you stay in the force?" he asked, "You have money, you have skills, you could start over anywhere. But you stayed. You're still staying..." he caught her eyes, "Why?"

The question had her stopped fully, as the shock almost left her breathless. For a moment, she couldn't believe he had asked the reason this directly, without any filter, but with such a simple "why." She recalled the night in the park and his question if people could change, if there was a second chance for anyone. Truth was that she had never believed in second chances, and she had never expected anyone truly change either, but she knew whether people change or not, time does, one moment at a time.

She exhaled deeply before she asked, "Do you believe in second chances, John?" The question made his look grow even tenser, keen and searching, his irises sharpening around the edges. She shook her head. "I don't. We born, we live, and we die. In the meantime we make choices, at the end our life isn't anything but the sum of those choices. You're right about this not being my dream job. I never wanted to be a cop, but at the end it became my job and I didn't care about it much," she glanced at him, "until I noticed something—"

Her words stopping; she paused, and he waited silently until she started talking again. "It was at my sixth month in the force," she said, resuming walking, "We—Stills and I—we were after a drug dealer. We tailed the guy for days until we found a safe house. We busted it, but we didn't find a lab or something...no, we found a grave—" Her eyes shifted toward him again, "An empty house and... little bones...scattered all around..." she paused before she talked again, her nose assaulting with the ghost of that trouble smell of death, "...belonging to a six years old girl who had been abducted a year before. The kidnapper was our guy. We'd gone there to catch a drug dealer but instead caught a child molester murderer."

Halting on her words and on her steps, she looked at him, all the world around them suddenly ceasing to exist as if there were only two remaining persons. "That night I couldn't help but think what it would have been if I'd had this job a bit earlier, wondered if I could have saved her...I knew I possibly couldn't have, but I still wondered, then I understood it," she said, pausing again. "I've never been a good person, John, and I've always known it, but that night I understood it didn't matter, not as long as there are far worse people than me outside." She took a step closer to him. "You know what I'm saying, right? When we caught those guys—" she said, "did it make you feel good?" she asked, getting closer, leaning over him, "No, it didn't," she answered before he could, "I'm not sure if there is anything that would make you feel good again, but tell me, John," moving toward him even closer, her lips found his ear, and she whispered, "didn't it make you feel—better?"

_March, 2015_

"_I want to feel better!_"

_The whole world stopped around him as he looked at her, words suddenly losing their meanings, instead turning into meaningless platitudes. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He looked at her eyes, once glinting like a razor, now all he saw was a deep dark grief where souls burned without casting any fire, leaving only cold ashes behind. She looked back at him, as if she was seeing the same. The sleepless city around had fallen into a false tranquility around them; what needed to be said was already said, what needed to be hushed was already hushed, the only thing remained now was ruins, ruins of broken lives, and a broken hope for mercy they would never find. It was easier to find mercy when the tragedies weren_'_t his, but once again, yet again, he had come to where he had started, lost in the ruins, with no real purpose but stay alive, without not really knowing why. Once a man had offered him a way out, but Lauren was right. There were no second chances, not in this life time._

_She shook her head, taking a step back of his embrace. He let her._

"_It never will get easier,_" _she said with the serenity of someone who had accepted his fate walking on the green path._

_This time he agreed with her. _"_No, it won_'_t._"

_Giving him a last look, she turned and walked away._

_He turned and did the same. He walked away as the darkness fell, each step bringing him further into the heart of the city where its real owners dwelt. Joan was how she had been always, silent but compassionate, always giving, never asking anything in return. He took the bottle she offered, and took a big sip from the sour wine. He looked at the homeless encampment, feeling it was the only constant he had ever had in his life, a castle in a long slumber in stasis, change always passed by its creeping walls. He should stay there; perhaps he should have never left in the first place. This was where he belonged to, among other misfits who had never really known how to fit in. He took another sip from the wine, and, finding a private corner away from the crowd, he slowly lay down on the battered rags, bottle tightly between his fingers._

_Joan didn_'_t ask what he was doing, forever wise-and-old, she never did, understanding the truth long before them; it never gets easier, no, it just gets easier to pretend._

_He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he found he wasn_'_t alone, a darkened figure accompanying him in his dark corner. He squeezed his eyes as a soft hand reached out, and took the bottle away from his fingers with a soft touch. Grasping the hand, he leaned forward, and saw Lauren_'_s face over his, her eyes burning with undisclosed desires as tears ran away from them, her mascara leaving ruins in its wake, _"_John,_" _she whispered his name, her voice even softer than her fingertips that ran over his palm, _"_I want to feel better._"

_For a split second that felt like eons he looked at her, then without a word he pulled her closer, and he kissed her. There was nothing more to say; there was only one truth in the depths of their hearts; they both wanted to feel better, they both needed to feel better._

_So he did, he buried himself in her, lost in the softness of flesh, in the heart of the night, behind the creeping walls where every heart beat in an ever-dream state._

_When he woke up at the dawn, she was already gone._

* * *

><p>As you can see, I named the story as Misfits for a reason ;)<p>

The next time, John gets lost, and to find him Lauren goes to see an old friend. Their relationship really changed, didn't it, in the show between these episodes. I found it always curious that John called Lionel as a detective "they can trust" in Witness, so I wanted to built up the relationship a bit more for that statement here with John and Lauren.


	12. Chapter XI

**Chapter XI – Missing the calls**

* * *

><p>Walking into her house after her morning jog, Lauren checked her phone, which had become something close to a habit since last week. No missed calls, not that she was surprised. While running, she had tied the phone around her upper arm inside her cardigan, and made sure to have the vibration on. She had never been a phone person; the pager was always easier and less messy for them to get into contact, especially when you didn't want to give away much about your personal routines. But that was before John Reese had dropped into life and turned things upside down. She supposed it wouldn't be exaggerating to classify things like that- before and after John Reese.<p>

Throwing her keys in the little ball on the counter in the hall, she grimaced, walking to the bathroom. She stripped down in front of the bathroom, her grimace growing, and hopped into the shower. Six days, almost a week had passed since that day in Central Park and they hadn't talked since then. Admittedly this wasn't the first time they hadn't been in contact for a time, and somehow she had known there was going to be another withdrawal after what had happened, she had gotten used to his gig as much as her own, but still... Adjusting the hot water, she frowned. She didn't like this feeling, waiting a call from a guy for whatever the reason. It made her feel insecure, almost desperate as if waiting for a guy to call you back when you'd given him your number after spending some horizontal quality time together. And, she never gave her number to one-night-stands, even refused it when the guys wanted to give _theirs_ to her.

She stood under the jet of water, and let the hot water massage her body. She supposed she would call him, at least she had asked his number, hadn't she? But what could she tell him? "Hey, long time no see, how have you been? Is anyone about to get murdered?" Sighing out silently, she turned off the tap, wrapped a towel around herself and walked out of the shower. On the way to her bedroom, her steps halted over the table where she had placed her phone before she had gone to shower, and with a silent curse she took the device and saw there was still no missed called.

"Argh," she growled, and groused, "stupid son of a bitch..." God, she was getting _really_ desperate. She threw the phone away, and walked into her bedroom. Quickly she got dressed, fitting herself into dark leggings and her knee-boots then took a dark navy turtle neck for the weather that was getting decidedly colder. She combed her hair and blew it dry then hastily she defined her dark eyes with the darker eyeliner and added a few other products to finish her routine daily make-up before she left the house for 8th precinct.

Just as she took a step out, her phone finally buzzed. Her heart skipped a beat, and she chided herself mentally as her hands clutched the phone inside her pocket. She bowed her head to read the caller ID, but when her eyes caught the screen she let out a frustrated groan. "Fusco," she almost bit the word, answering the call.

"We have a body in a bodega," Carter said as a way of greeting, "in Brighton Beach. I'm on my way." With that, the line was closed. Well, she supposed that was at least something. Slipping the phone back inside her pocket, she rushed to her car.

She arrived to the crime scene almost half an hour later, even with the blue flash at the top of car, the traffic at the Brooklyn Bridge at its worst in the early morning. The place though was already swarming with police like a hive of bees, and witnesses were making even a bigger fuss with their hush-hush buzzing. "I thought I was all done mopping up bodega shootings when I joined the homicide task force," she swayed into the shop, her voice low in sarcasm, her eyes traveling around almost lazily.

But Carter wasn't surely sharing any of her idle sarcasm. "This looks to you like a stickup job?" the older detective turned aside from the computer that had the security tapes on the screen to bite her head off, "Then maybe you need to go back to working a precinct," and went on with her warm welcoming, "There was no money taken. Double tap, close range—" She pointed to the screen. "This was an execution."

A mob killing, in Brighton Beach... it meant...bad things. Her demeanor changing at the instant, she approached to the computer next to Carter. "We got an ID on the vic?" she asked, the idleness in her tone now lost.

Carter shook her head. "Not yet," she answered, "but you haven't seen the best part." She turned to the plain-clothes officer, and ordered, "Rewind it again." On the screen, the killer walked away as another man, a plump, middle aged bald man approached to the dying man on the ground, and hovered above him. Carter pointed at the man. "We got ourselves a witness."

"Any sign of him?" Lauren asked, eyeing the man. If this thing was going to be what she was thinking, they would need to find that man soon, very soon.

Carter shook her head again before she answered. "I put out a bolo, and had a team canvass a six-block radius. But no sights yet," her eyes turned to the screens, "The guy vanished."

Sighing out, Lauren leaned against the counter on which the computer sat. "I'd make myself scarce too," she said, her eyes moving toward the windows, "this isn't a neighborhood where you want to be called a snitch." Brighton Beach was a Russian territory, and like any other mob in the world, the Russians had no love for the squealers.

"No, it's not," Carter agreed with her as another plain-clothes cop with a nasty scar over his cheek interrupted their conversation. "Detective," he called to Carter, "Got a bunch of reporters out there begging me for scraps. What do I tell them?"

Carter let out a growl. "Send them to the task force PR guy," she ordered to the scar guy, "Let him deal with them." The man nodded, already turning to walk out with a respectful but half-mouthed "yes, ma'am," as another tall, dark-haired man came to their side, in his rather _charming_ dark brown suit. Her eyes focused on the man. She wondered for a moment why all men couldn't have the same fashion taste that Reese had in suits. Grimacing over her last thought, she turned to the newcomer as Carter introduced them. "Detective Szymanski, organized crime," she told her, then turned to the tall guy, "This is Detective Fusco."

Szymanski gave her a look, with a bit more attention than would be considered a work interest, "Nice to meet you, Detective."

His tone was subtle, but his eyes still lingered a bit more. "Was this a mob hit?" she asked, evening her voice into the usual business tone.

"The victim's a former La Cosa Nostra lieutenant by the name of Benny d'Agostino," the organized crime detective explained, getting into the business act as well. "He was out of the game for a couple of years, and then he popped up again on our radar about six months ago."

Lauren frowned. "Brighton Beach is Russian territory," she asked, "What's LCN doing here?"

The other detective gave her a funny look. "You kidding? There's a war going on. Half a dozen VIPs in the Russian mob were taken out last month. Word is Benny's boss ordered the hits." He looked at both of them seriously, and declared with finality, "This was retribution."

"So who's his boss?" Carter asked.

"We don't know much other than a name—" the man said, letting out a sigh that Lauren could hear the exasperation behind it clearly, "Elias."

Carter almost flinched at the mention of the name. "You heard of him?" Szymanski asked.

Lauren tried to recall what had happened to the female detective, but Carter didn't let her wonder much. "Oh, yeah," she said, "We go way back. One of his guys took a shot at me a couple of weeks ago."

Lauren understood it was something that had happened before she joined the 8th precinct. She decided to scratch around a bit for information to give Reese. If Carter was targeted by a mob boss, she had an inkling that he might want to know about it. "This Elias is a clever bastard," Szymanski went on with the same exasperation, "Nobody even knows what he looks like."

"What about the witness? Your boys have any luck finding him?" Carter asked.

"No, but have another look at the surveillance footage," the organized crime detective motioned with his hand to one of his men. The guy brought them a laptop that had the security tapes they had watched before. "The victim said something to the witness." Szymanski pointed to the screen showing the bald man hovering over their dead guy.

Carter's face suddenly lit up. "If it's a dying declaration and he named the killers," she said, "it'd be admissible."

"Yeah," Szymanski said, letting out another sigh that clearly was saying a but would follow, "but," the man went on, not disappointing her, "we've got a problem. The Russian owner of this fine establishment was on a conveniently timed smoke break when all this went down. He's not giving us anything."

"You think he told the shooters we found a witness?" Lauren asked, frowning, "If he did, the Russians will knock down every door in this neighborhood till they find him."

"Well, my guys are working the block," Szymanski said evenly, "Something will pop."

"It better," Carter shot back with the same tone, but Lauren didn't hear it. She walked away from the detectives, her mind rapidly working over the possibilities. She had seen that little man on the screen. He hadn't a chance in Hell against Russian thugs, not on their turf. If the guy saw the next dawn, Lauren would call him lucky. Her eyes traveled around, spotting her co-workers, but suddenly she felt alone as she had never felt before. They couldn't save that guy. Who knew how many dirty police the Russians had in their pockets, officers like her. Her face souring, she looked around, and moved away even further, away from the yellow bands of the police. She took her phone out, and looked at it. She unlocked the screen then found his number, but before she hit it, her hand hesitated.

She was crossing another line, she knew, once again bending the unspoken rules. Almost sighing, she tucked the phone in her back pocket, then took it out again with a curt movement, unlocked it, and hit his number before she backpedaled. There it was, the ringing, the crossing line she couldn't take back. The phone rang another time before she heard the familiar raspy voice in his suave mannerism, "Hello, Lauren."

And, she could have never guessed before hearing that arrogant rasping tone would have made her feel this...giddy. It was like nothing had happened, nothing had changed. She welcomed the familiarity, trying to find a suitable way to open the conversation, but came up with nothing. From the other side, no response came, either. Goddammit, he wasn't going to make it easy for her; he wasn't going to give her an opening. She would have fired a few retorts, chiding him mockingly for his rather rude behavior, but that would have been much too easy, and apparently John Reese liked playing the hard ball. Getting more irritated, she talked fast into the phone, "I don't know how you usually do what you do," she started, "but I'm looking for a guy," she took a breath, and completed, "and I could use some help."

Again, no response. She decided to continue. "He's a witness, saw a Russian mob hit go down," she explained. "Caucasian, 5'10", bald," she gave him a brief description of the man on the security tapes, "probably not the most popular guy in his class," she added, "If you know what I mean," then paused before she stated, "We need to find him."

She then stopped and waited for his reaction. He still stayed in silence for a couple of seconds, then talked, but it was the last thing she had expected. "I think I already did."

The confusion colored her voice as much as her face. "What?"

"I found your guy, Lauren," he repeated.

"How?" she asked, but she knew she wasn't going to get an answer for that. She shook her head. "Never mind," she muttered, and once again focused on what really mattered, "Look, whoever did this hit," she said, starting walking again, "They're going to come looking for him."

"Well, they've already found him," he said in return.

As she stopped in her steps, she barked at the phone again, "What?"

"A Russian hit team closing in his apartment," he explained as she heard his faint breathing, and realized he had already gotten involved, "counted six men with machine guns."

"Oh, God," she almost groaned, "Where is he? He wasn't in his _own _apartment," she said, "Give me the address."

"Brighton Sixth Avenue, 711," he told her the address, "I'm going in."

"No, wait for us," she said, already jogging toward Carter, but his voice stopped her.

"No. We don't have time. I'm taking him out. Meet us at Pier 11 at Wall Street," he instructed her, "We'll take East River Ferry."

She opened her mouth to reject but the line was already closed. "Goddammit," she cursed, her hand tightening around the phone. Stupid, stupid, stupid man.

With another curse, she turned on her heels, and slipped out of the crowd. Walking to her car, with the corner of her eyes, she picked up Carter, still hunched over the computer with Szymanski. The other detective's eyes found hers for a split second, but without giving her any answer, she kept walking. She let out another grunt-sigh, knowing her behavior would surely come back to bite her ass. She was going to need to find a good reason that sounded plausible to explain her erratic goings. Her lies with meeting with CIs would only work for a time.

Muttering under her breath, she drove to Pier 11. Forty minutes later, she was waiting at Pier 11, leaned against a metal railing, her eyes fixed ahead over the endless water. They weren't on the first ferry that had come back from Brooklyn. She wasn't bothered. No matter how fast he might be, he couldn't be at the first boat. It had taken more than half an hour for her as well to get back to Manhattan with her car. Then the next hour, another boat, but Reese wasn't on it, either, and she started getting bothered. She took her phone out, and called him, only to find he couldn't be reached.

Frowning, she lowered her arm down over the railing, the phone still in her hand. She waited another ferry, then another, then another, leaving countless missed calls to Reese, until her phone buzzed at the end of the fourth hour. She brought it up, her heart skipping a beat, then the second time in the day instead of "the man in the suit", she saw "Carter" on the screen. She let out a sigh, and answered the line, "Fusco."

"Where did you get lost, Fusco," Carter demanded angrily, "We have Mrs. d'Agostino in for questioning," she went on, "she didn't say good things."

"What did she say?" Lauren asked.

"That Brighton Beach is just a beginning," Carter answered, her voice getting a bit more moderate, "That Elias has bigger plans." She paused again. "Elias...he's planning something. I don't know what but he's planning something. Benny's wife seemed sure that her husband's death had a meaning, that his death was going to be the mark of something. She was so sure of that his blood is gonna be revenged."

"You think Elias is gonna start a mob war?" Lauren asked.

"Well, I think it's already started," Carter said, sighing, "Meet with us at Brighton Sixth Avenue, 711," she then said, as Lauren's heart stopped for a moment beating.

Then her voice almost shaking, she asked, "Wh—what happened?"

"Szymanski just called," Carter answered, "the Russians hit it, heavily armed."

She closed her eyes. "Any causalities?" she asked, even though she didn't want to hear the answer.

"Not that I know of," Carter answered, as she started breathing regularly again. "I'm on my way," Carter continued, "Meet us there."

Confirming with her, Lauren closed the phone and tried not to speculate. Anything would have happened, and in this stage of things, with this little information, every assumption wouldn't be anything but a speculation. She drove back to Brighton Beach, then toward Sixth Avenue. When she found the apartment at 711, Carter was already there, talking with Szymanski. When she closed in on them, she heard the organized crime detective briefing Carter, "Five or six heavily armed men were chasing a guy matching the description of our witness," the tall detective informed, "His name's Charlie Burton, by the way. Found out he had groceries delivered twice a month from the bodega—" He gave them a look, "And he wasn't dodging bullets by himself."

Carter's eyebrows raised as Lauren let out a silent breath next to him. "Who was he with?"

Szymanski shrugged uneasily. "Some tall guy in a suit," he said, "Definitely not with the Russians. He shot one of them in the knee before they got away." Carter let out a groan-sigh, shaking her head in exasperation, as Szymanski looked at her funnily. "What? You know him?" the male detective asked.

"It's just someone I've been tracking for a while," Carter answered, "a pain in the ass, best shot I've got is he's former military," she went on before Lauren interrupted her ranting.

"Either one of them get hit?" she asked, looking around, "There seems to be an awful lot of shots fired."

Szymanski shook his head negative, "Looks like they got off okay." She let out another silent breath, as he continued, "I got a Russian thug in the hospital who isn't talking," then pointed across the street, "but we got an ATM camera across the street. That might help shed some light on things."

"It'll take two weeks and a warrant to get the footage," Carter pointed out, and Lauren knew by that time Mr. Burton was going to be long dead, if John didn't do anything about it.

They both grimaced, possibly for different things, but Szymanski gave them a small smile. "Thankfully, a bystander got some footage of her own," the detective said, holding out his phone between them, "Meet Peter Yogorov."

Carter's eyes almost widened. "As in Ivan Yogorov," she asked, "The Russian boss?"

The organized crime detective nodded. "Peter is his son," he informed them, and gave them another look. "And he sent _his_ son to take out a witness."

Carter let out a sigh. "They're planning something—" she said, but Lauren shook her head.

"Or they're wary of Elias," Lauren said, "as much as we are."

Even though they gave her hard looks, neither of the detectives contradicted her words, because they both knew what she had said was true. Leaving them, she walked away, narrowing her imperative, to find her own person of interest. Dealing with a mob boss was something people like Carter could do, putting everything on the table, with their impeccably clean records. And, most of times even it wasn't enough, the monsters always having a way to turn their opponents into the exact things they fought against. Instead of that impossible task that would highly end up in tears, she would always pick up the little bread crumbs off of the streets, and find the lost ones in the witch's house.

She walked around the building, trying to determine which way they would go. She noticed the plain-clothes officer with the scar and approached him. "What's the easiest way out of this neighborhood?"

The man pointed toward the buildings behind her back. She turned around, and looked at the tall, old housing complex that probably had lived through a world war. "This way," the man answered, "but they wouldn't go to that way."

Her eyebrow raised, she turned back toward the officer. "Why?"

"The Double "B"s belongs to Bulgarians," the man answered, "Even Russians don't go there."

Turning back, she looked at the building blocks again, a smile curling her lips upward. Got it. She got it, she knew where he was. It was so in plain sight that for a moment, she chided herself for not seeing it before. Cursing mentally, she turned around and walked away from the scarred police officer, but her pace wasn't as quick as the situation demanded. In fact, it was as if she was stalling. She knew what she had to do. It was unfamiliar territory, and before anything else she needed to change that. She needed to find out more about the ground, and for that she needed a contact, and she knew exactly how to find it. The only problem though it also meant she needed to call an old friend, a friend who most probably was in the current of the things that happened in this part of the Brooklyn. A friend who currently ran Flare.

Walking to her car, she observed the situation. It wasn't like that she didn't need to go to her former work place. With the last Cartel debate, she had already thought of a visit to Clara, and always had found a reason not to. But, this time there was a reason she couldn't quickly dismiss, a voice back in her mind, telling her what had to be done must be done. Quickening her pace, she neared her car, and opened the door. Then right that moment, her phone rang. She took it out and her hand froze on the handle when she saw the unidentified caller. She opened it, "Fusco."

But the voice she heard wasn't the rasping one she had expected. "Hello, Detective," an even, rich male voice greeted her in a cultivated manner. "I need to talk to you about our mutual friend," it said further.

Her back straightening, she leaned against the door. "I don't have friends."

The man at the other side didn't hesitate. "I seem to recall you were going to take him to the Oyster Bay once upon a time."

For a moment, Lauren couldn't speak, but only looked ahead over the hood of the car, almost stupefied. "So you're the boss?" she then asked, collecting herself, "The guy on the other end of the phone?"

"That would be me, yes," he affirmed.

"The one who called me..." she completed, her voice turning cold, "_pet_."

* * *

><p><em>Five hours ago<em>

Sipping through his Sencha green tea in his morning ritual, Finch briefed John Reese about the last number he had received from the machine. "I received his number late last night," he said over their wireless connection, "his name is Charlie Burton."

"The guy is worried about something," the ex-CIA operative commented as he stationed at the address he had provided for him, "but I'm not seeing a threat yet." He paused for a second, "What's his story, Finch?"

Finch read from the file he had put together on Burton. "He's a high-school history teacher working in the Brighton Beach school district," he stated, "Lives alone, never married—not much to go on," he finished. Apparently, Charlie Burton was one of those people who were very wary of the technology that so many people were so easily ready to believe in. His e-mail account was the one that provided by his school, and his inbox was solely focused on his work. He hadn't found a personal e-mail account, nor a social media account. They couldn't even find a cell phone to bluejack. Despite being exasperated at this lack of knowledge, Finch couldn't help but feel—impressed at the man's stubbornness regarding his privacy. It was something surely he could understand.

"Well, maybe a student's after him," John remarked, "You know, teaching can be a dangerous profession."

"Yes, I imagine espionage was a much safer choice, Mr. Reese," he shot back. He liked John's dry humor, he really did, but sometimes it was just too much, too much to handle, but then again, he supposed that could have been said almost everything about his last field agent.

There was a sudden silence over their connection then his computer beeped once and let him know that John had received another call. He recognized the number at first sight, and he wasn't really surprised to hear the silky tone of John's dry humor heightening even more as he answered, "Hello, Lauren."

The call, however, was certainly surprising. Finch knew that the former CIA operative's ties with his dirty detective had gotten a lot more—tangled after the ordeal they had gone through with Judge Gates, their liaison getting more complicated but he also knew John hadn't contacted her yet since then. All things considered, he had never expected the detective would have made the first contact either, but evidently she had once again surprised him with her behavior. Or puzzled, depending from which side of the story one looked.

Then things became even more puzzling when she defined the reason of her call, "He's a witness, saw a Russian mob hit go down. He's Caucasian, 5'10", bald. Probably not the most popular guy in his class, if you know what I mean," she said, as his eyes shifted toward the photo of their last number then she concluded, "We have to find him."

"I think I already did," John stated.

Wordlessly, Finch listened to their conversation as his field agent finished it, ordering her to meet them at Pier 11. "Mr. Reese, we might want to leave this one to the authorities," he commented, though he knew it wasn't going to happen, not with John Reese.

"Don't have time," the ex-CIA told him what he had also told his dirty detective, "We can't wait." He didn't say anything further though, then a few moments later he heard John's voice as he met the first contact with their number. "Mr. Burton, you're in danger. The men from the bodega are here."

Expectedly Charlie Burton did the whole routine like many of their...clients did. He asked John who he was and how he knew it but John Reese had already become habituated to those questions. "Sir, you have a Russian hit team closing in," he told the school teacher, "which leaves us with approximately five seconds before you make a decision."

"How do I know you're not one of them?" Burton asked with agitation of a man who knew the threat he was facing.

"Because I'm standing in front of you, and you're still alive."

The simplicity of his answer didn't leave any choice to Burton. Finch heard them as they left the apartment. "Mr. Reese, can you get out?" he interfered, "Do you need me to call in a distraction?"

"Let me get back to you on that," John answered at the same time Burton asked him where they were going. "Pier 11," he answered, "we need to get you to the police so you can tell them about what you saw at the bodega."

The agitation in Burton's voice grew higher. "The Russian mob is after me, friend. They've got people on the inside. If I testify, I'm dead."

Then John Reese said something he could never expect to hear from him. "I know a detective we can trust," he said, "But we need to get you across the river to Manhattan first."

Finch's eyebrow rose on suspicion. A detective they could trust. Considering everything that had happened, Finch wasn't ready yet to call Lauren Fusco a trustworthy asset. Useful, yes, even reliable in some instances, but trustable was stretching the facts a little. Yet, here he was, John Reese was calling her trustworthy. They might have grown a tad closer during their last ordeal, yes, but trust was a dangerous thing, especially in their line of business.

"Mr. Reese," he started as the same time John did at the other end, "the fastest way out of this neighborhood is through those buildings. We—" but neither of them could complete their sentences as a sudden crash boomed through their connection. First there was only static in his ear, then everything went dead.

"Mr. Reese, do you copy?" He typed a few commands in his computer. A pop-up window opened on his screen to inform him rather needlessly that he had lost his contact to his asset.

"Mr. Reese, do you hear me?" he tried another time, even though he knew he couldn't. Something must have happened with his phone. He tried to build another connection, but failed once again, then as quickly as his bad leg let him, he stood up from his station and left the library. He had to find out what had happened, and his best shot at the moment was the security cameras that overlooked at the apartment 711.

At the Brighton Sixth Avenue, he found what he had been looking for, an ATM that had a clear sight of the entrance of Charlie Burton's apartment. He quickly walked to it. He stuck a thumb drive in the machine's USB socket, and uploaded his software virus to the ATM's control systems. His eyes checked around as his virus did what it was supposed to do, infiltrating itself into the systems and just before he left the place, pulling the drive out, he saw John's dirty detective arriving at the crime scene together with Detective Carter.

Hastily, he walked to his car, and drove to the library once again. Inside, he linked himself to the ATM's systems and found the security tapes. He adjusted the data, filtering the time slots, and found John crossing the street to the apartment as men with harsh features parked along the curb. Five minutes later, John left the place, Burton on his tail. As the men, evidently from the Russian mob, infiltrated the building, Reese and Burton disappeared behind the first corner. Whatever had happened, it must have happened at the other side of the block. He fast forwarded the tape for a few minutes then stopped it as he noticed a grey SUV parked in front of Burton's apartment. A few men dressed in black suits got out of the car as a police officer met them, appearing behind the apartment.

Leaning forward on his seat, he froze the tape, and enlarged the image until he saw the blurry face of the policeman, a long scar crossing over his cheek. "Who are you, people?" Finch muttered, looking at the scene.

Obviously, the dirty police officers, but working for who was the question that interested him the most. Finch wasn't sure. But he would surely figure out. Enlarging the image again, he focused on the plate of the SUV and wrote it down on his notepad. Then he stopped, straightened away from the table in his usual slow motion.

He needed to figure it out who that belonged to, fast. If there was a third party involved in with this number, they would need to know it soon, before things turned to worse. Losing the contact with your man on the ground was already bad enough as it was, but the grounds became also unfamiliar was harboring over the disastrous.

Hacking into the city's records to look for that plate wouldn't cause him any problem, but it would surely cost time, which had become more crucial than ever.

_Thank you for giving me a job_, echoed in his mind, as his eyes moved to left, to his wall of "numbers". As a flash, the moments started passing through his head fast, their first meeting in the hospital, the meeting that John wasn't aware of, not yet, not as long as he could hinder it. With the image, the familiar guilt returned, more than anytime, accompanying the dead face of Dillinger... No, not again, not another one. He was going to find John Reese. He was going to, no matter what.

His eyes shifted from the left corner of the wall, toward the middle of it, where a snapshot of the detective that John Reese had addressed as trustworthy a few hours ago stood in the heart of the tangled cluster of numbers. Trust was a leap, over a chasm of faith, where many had fallen and perished, but hope was bigger than life, and desperation was heavier than death.

His hand found the phone. The phone rang twice before the female detective answered with a curt "Fusco."

"Hello, Detective," he said, and decided to get it over it as fast as possible, "I need to talk to you about our mutual friend."

There was a brief pause from the other side of the line at first then her answer came in a slow but edgy husk, "I don't have friends."

Well, somehow he wasn't surprised at that. "I seem to recall you were going to take one to the Oyster Bay once upon a time."

There was a pause over the line once again, this time longer, but when she spoke next her voice didn't carry the sure bewilderment he knew she had felt. "So you're the boss?" she asked instead, "The guy on the other end of the phone?"

He confirmed her suspicion, "That would be me, yes."

"The one who called me..." she went on, her voice suddenly turning cold, "_pet_."

Ah. For a second, Finch wondered if he had heard her correct, she surely couldn't know about that, but it seemed he had misread John's interaction with the detective. "Detective Fusco—" he started but she didn't let him continue.

"What's happening?" she asked instead, her voice now strictly business, as he heard a motor sound in the background, "He asked me to meet him at Pier 11 but he never showed up."

The motor sound grew louder. "I'm not sure," he admitted, understanding she had gotten into her car, "I lost contact with him."

Under the hum of motor, a sniff reached to his ears. "You sound like it's the first time," she retorted, then sniffed again. "He was seen in Brighton Beach for the last, and Russians openly fired at him and the witness under the broad daylight."

"I know," he said, "this is why I called you, Detective," he continued, "I need you to do something for me."

"I should have known," she muttered, releasing a low sigh, "What is it?"

"I need you to run a car's plate for me," he clarified, "Could you do it?"

"Yes, of course," she answered, then paused for a second before continuing pointedly, "as soon as you tell me what this is all about."

From the other side, he felt the expectant silence. "It's about a lead that also concerns your investigation, Ms. Fusco," he said vaguely. "That's all you need to know."

"Charming," she shot back, "but I already have a lead that also concerns..._you_."

Over their conversation, one thing had become clear to Finch. He had started to understand why John had...favored her. She was quick on her feet, and even better at verbal-spars. "Do you know where they are?"

"Ugh—" she breathed out, "Not for sure, but I think they headed northeast."

"Pier 11 is northwest," he said back, "why would they would go in the opposite direction?"

"I don't know," she answered dryly, "because a Russian mob after their trail?" she said mockingly, then went on with a more serious voice. "The enemy of my enemy," she stated, as a klaxon interrupted their conversation. "Goddammit it," she muttered angrily as he heard the brake screeching over the line. He frowned as she went on, clearly on the road, "That part of the neighborhood belongs to Bulgarians. They have a rocky truce. They don't cross each other. He might be there," she concluded, explaining her way of reasoning, "That's where I'd head to if I had a Russian mob looking after my blood."

But he wasn't convinced, not really. "Do you have any concrete evidence to support that assumption, Detective?"

"Well, I'm just about to collect your _concrete _evidence," she said, as the motor sounds vanished in the back ground, then a smile carried over the line along with her voice. "Meet me in front of Flare in an hour," she ordered him flatly, then her voice turned to taunting, "This time am I correct in assuming you already know where it is, Mr. Finch?"

* * *

><p><em>The next time we will see Lauren in Flare, even will get a glimpse of Razor ;)<em>

_**Persevera**, being an awesome person and a beta-reader, also provided a cover for the story, something I really, really, really liked. It was just the thing I wanted with Reese and Lauren, quick snapshots of them on the background of a filtered silhouette of New York over the Brooklyn Bridge. The actress in the cover is Laura Mennell. That shot of her IS Lauren._

_See you the next time._


	13. Chapter XII

_**Chapter XII – "Sharp as a razor, good as a Samaritan"**_

* * *

><p>From the outside, the two story, low-rise building looked the same as when she'd worked there, but Lauren knew it was just from the outside. The flames of Flare changed according to its every fickle Mistress.<p>

Determined, she crossed the street, but her feet still halted at the threshold. After she had joined the force, she had never thought she would return here, not willingly at least. This place had changed her life, had changed it irrecoverably, and standing up at the front, the ghosts of past were more in the present than ever. Her eyes shifted left, and she caught the dead-end alley at the back exit, the shadows still playing in the corner even under the sunlight. A life time ago, she had stood in that corner and asked to a man what he wanted from her, and the answer had changed her life.

_February, 1998_

_Holding the zip carefully between her sharp fingernails, she took off the thigh high boots that covered most of her legs like a second skin, then took the little white pill in the drawer of the vanity table and swallowed it dry. Cheers from the stage still in her ears, she twisted aside on her chair and looked in the mirror. With the heavy make-up and reddened eyes, the woman she saw back looked like a stranger to her. Heaving a subsided sigh, she started taking off the artificial fingernails, the backstage loud and crowded in its usual glamor, girls preparing for their gig. It wasn't the best job in the world, no, but it wasn't the worst one, either, she told herself._

_From the other corner, Clara swept the hall with her usual arrogance, flair and elegance, half of her face covered with a black birdcage veil, her body fitted into a dark silk dress that had long slits at both sides of her legs and enough décolletage that left most of her upper body open to admiration of her—clientele with its asymmetric cutting. It was the most unusual outfit one ever could think for dancing on the stage, but like most of things she did, the alluring blonde always had exceptions._

_Sitting on her vanity table, Clara crossed her legs, and lifted her head up, as if listening to the crowd outside. Bowing her head, she ran a long gloved hand over her knees then her eyes found hers. "See," Clara said, giving her a smile under her bowed head, "they liked it."_

_She looked at the fingernails she had taken off, and shrugged, "Yeah."_

_Clara shook her head, her veil mask dancing with her movements, "Come on, kiddo, don't be like that," she told her, throwing her head back, "Listen to the ovation, bask in the glamour. This is the house of rising sun, and we're all goddesses here."_

_Lauren took a cotton ball and started cleaning her make-up. "I don't feel like a goddess."_

_Clara shook her head again, almost in resignation. "Because you don't know your potential," she said, "You always hold yourself back."_

_Throwing the cotton ball away, she fixed a stare at the older girl. "Excuse me for not sharing your enthusiasm to show off myself to complete strangers, Clara."_

_Clara only smiled at her bitter words. "See, my point," she said, running up a finger over her upper arm, a silky touch over the skin, "Whenever someone tries to get close to you," the blonde said further, her eyes behind the veil fixed at hers, "you show off your...razors."_

"_You're out of your mind," she snapped, standing up, and starting to turn away, "don't know what you're talking about."_

_Before she walked away, Clara's hand clutched her. "Don't I? Really?" she asked, her dark navy blue eyes boring through hers, "You have this funny idea that everyone breathes to mock you."_

_Lauren lowered her eyes at the gloved hand holding her arm. "I'm afraid I don't see the point of this conversation."_

_Clara smiled even further. "I gave you a good idea, and you turned it into Razor," she said, "The point is that you're afraid of intimacy, Lauren."_

"_And how's that your business?" she asked coldly in sharp tones._

_Slipping off of the desk, Clara let out a low laugh, like she had asked the silliest thing. "Sticks and stones hurt like hell, but words cannot touch me, kiddo," she cooed, "It's my business because I consider _you_ a friend."_

_For a moment, she looked at Clara then pulled her arm off her clutch. "I consider you a friend, too," she said in return, but like it was mandatory when someone told you something like this, and her voice didn't sound sincere at all, even she noticed it. "It's just that—I'm not very good with people," she concluded weakly._

_It was a lame excuse, she knew it, too, and much like her voice, Clara didn't also take her words. "Work on it," she said sternly, and got closer to her again, "Someday you're going to be a lawyer," she continued, "people are going to look up to you, they're going to depend on you, they're going to trust you. How can you help them if you don't like them?"_

"_I like people," she protested, "I just don't get along well with some—persons."_

"_Tell me a friend name," Clara demanded._

"_You?"_

_Clara almost rolled her eyes. "I don't count."_

"_Leslie?" she tried another time._

_Clara flashed at her a radiant smile. "I heard her say that you're the most arrogant bitch that ever came to Cheesecake Factory." Her eyes widened. Clara smiled even further. "Say a boyfriend's name," she demanded the next. Getting more on the topic, and cursing herself mentally how she had let the blonde woman steer her to that topic, Lauren kept her silence. "I think you need to fuck that guy," Clara then suddenly announced. Her voice despite the crude word was still elegant. _

_Her eyes widening even more, Lauren spurted out, "What?"_

"_Adam Cavalier," Clara clarified, "I think you need to fuck him." She let out a sigh. "You're always so uptight, you need a good lay, and he seems okay."_

"_He isn't okay," she protested fiercely, "he's terrible!"_

_Clara tilted her head aside. "I always see him around you like a pup."_

"_You're out of your mind," she said, buttoning her coat, and taking her bag from the vanity, "and this conversation is done."_

_Without another word, she left the backstage, climbed down the stairs, and exited into the dead end-alley. Sleeping with Adam Cavalier... she'd go better to sleep with a snake. She had no idea why everyone thought the bastard _liked_ her, but she had no reason to look for answers, either. She already knew the answer. He was always around, because he was bored, and she always offered him a good laugh. Her hands fisting inside her palms, she almost wished her own fingernails had been as sharp as Razors'. Then she heard the silky voice, cultivated in an effortless mannerism, "I never thought you would take my advice seriously, Lauren," he said from her back, "I'm almost—impressed."_

_Turning on her heels, she twirled around, and saw the man who had been in her last thoughts leaning against Flare's wall, almost idly, almost bored. No... Not here, she almost begged inside, wanting to kneel on the ground, cried with all of her heart. Not here, not him, everyone else, but not him. _Of all the gin joints_ in all the towns in all the world, he couldn't walk into hers. He could NOT._

_But he did, whether it was because of karma or something else, he did, he had walked into her house of rising sun. He gave her a sizing look, his lips curving up into a smirk. "Definitely suits you better."_

You don't belong here_, _and whatever you do someday you're going to go back to where you belong... _The words echoed in her mind through a mist, self-fulfilled, and she understood there was nothing she could do now, nothing she could do to—hinder him. He had her, fair and square, and she was stuck, with no way out, and he knew it. "What do you want from me?" she asked almost in defeat._

"_Well, for starters," he answered, his smirk turning deeper, wilder, "How about a lap dance?"_

Feeling the familiar anger and desperation rearing, she returned to the present, in front of Flare, where it had all started. She let out a breath. This was how the past always made her feel, an anger mixed with a strong sense of desperation, down to every cell. She had never managed to let it go, never managed to leave it behind, even though she was damn tired of carrying it everywhere she went. Coming here was even a worse idea than she had presumed. She had believed herself ready, she had at least thought herself strong enough to deal with it, but it seemed she had exaggerated her will power a bit. Shaking her head, she squared her shoulders, and raised her chin. She had decided to come here, and she was going to do it. Together with her person of interest, Reese was MIA, and she was going to find them. She was going to do her job.

Once, she knew, she wouldn't have cared. It wasn't like they were kids thrown into a world they could barely understand, but there was no denying what she felt. She wanted to do her job. She wanted to find the witness before it was too late, and she realized she also wanted to find Reese. The man was a pain in the ass, but somewhere along their rocky path, he had become a pain in _her_ ass. Straightening her shoulders further, she walked into Flare.

In the middle of day there weren't many people around, only bartenders, bell boys, and body guards. The girls having not arrived yet, the bodyguards must have been lounging at the lush boxes, so she walked in without any trouble, as the bell boys and bartenders ran around to prepare the house for another night of sin. As soon as she set a foot inside the saloon, one of the bodyguards stood up from the couches at the backside of the long oval stage.

Standing a few feet away from him, she looked at the muscled man. His eyes were narrowed into a stare, which was concentrated on her closely. "I want to talk with Madame," she announced with a clear voice, speaking deliberately Clara's title instead of her name. Thanks to all was good and sacred, after getting the management of Flare, Clara had seen none of the staff during their time had stayed in the house.

The bodyguard gave her another look, still sizing her up and down. She waited the man to come to a decision and started walking away to call his Mistress, but he stayed firmly in his place, his eyes still on her. Letting a low breathy sigh, she said, "Tell Clara the kiddo wants to talk with her."

It didn't look like her words surprise the man, but he finally nodded and started climbing the staircase. Bypassing the armchairs around the oval stage, she went to the bar, slipped on a long bar stool, and waited, her eyes traveling around. Clara had changed Flare, turning it accordingly with her nature to an elegant modern Moulin Rouge, with less red, but more dark purple, fuchsia, and black. It wasn't bad, neither it was cheesy, but somehow she found herself preferring the curt angles of the Flare she knew. Razor fit better to that place than this one, and remembering Clara's words, she frowned. A few minutes later, Clara showed up on the staircase, half of her face still covered behind the black birdcage veil she had always used to wear in Flare, her hands decorated with silver chains.

Time didn't seem to touch on her old friend. As she stood there with all of her bohemian allure, she seemed the same—her hair as blonde as ever, her eyes the same dark navy in a furious tempest. No wrinkles of scorn or worry were around her eyes, nor grim lines around her mouth. Suddenly, next to her, she felt aged like hundred years. The dark blue eyes widened only for a second as they caught her figure then supporting a smile, Clara slowly started climbing down the staircase, her every small step showing a generous amount of bare legs through the slits of her dress. At the last step, her eyes still fixed on hers, she barked out an order in a low whisper, "Enough ogling, people. Everyone back to business." She then approached her. "Lauren," she almost cooed, her lips widening more, "I never thought I would see you around here again."

"Really?" she asked back, tilting her head aside, with a flat cop voice she had perfected over the years. The time had passed; Clara must have stayed the same, but she hadn't. "Because I think you _would_," she continued, punctuating the last word with the tip of her tongue. Clara gave her a confused look, and she remembered again how talented the blond woman had been in performing arts. She shook her head. "Don't feign confusion, Clara," she said, "I know people came to ask about me."

On the instant, Clara dropped the act. "I didn't want to say anything, but—" she halted for a second, her eyes skipping to her bodyguards, "you see my position, right?" she asked, "I need to be careful. Always." Looking back at her, Lauren simply nodded. "Who were they?" Clara went on, "they looked like trouble."

"They're from a Mexican Cartel," she answered with the same flat voice, as Clara tried to play the cool but failed. She shook her head again. "Don't worry," she assured the woman, "they won't be a problem again. But I need to know if anyone else has come to look for me."

Clara nodded, "Of course," then gave her another smile. "So how is it going?" she asked, her eyes sizing her up and down like her body guard had done.

"Good," she answered dismissively then started, "But I'm not here for the Cartel. There was a shooting in Brighton Beach today, and another one yesterday in a bodega. I need to find someone who might know about those," she said directly, and asked, "Do you know anyone?"

For a moment, Clara's elegant poise wavered, before she collected herself. She shook a hand in the air, and a few seconds later, one of the bodyguards brought her a slim cigarette, already lit. She took it from the man, her eyes fixed on hers, and took a deep breath as the man left. "That's a dangerous question, Lauren," the blonde woman finally commented, "Almost worse than the Cartel."

She leaned forward, "I can protect you."

Clara gave her a pointed look. "And how do you think you'd do it?"

She returned the woman's stare. "Don't feign cluelessness, either, Clara," she pulled aside her jacket, and showed the other woman her badge, "I know you know what I'm doing for a living now."

Clara's eyes dropped to the badge then went up as she pulled her jacket back. "Then it was true," the other woman said, almost to herself, "I heard the rumors but didn't believe it." A laugh escaped from her, a laugh she was accustomed to hearing from the past days, "My kiddo has become a cop."

"Yeah—so," she said, and repeated, "do you know someone?"

"What's your angle?" Clara asked back, "What are you interested in?"

"There is something happening in Brighton Beach, something that interests you, all of you," she answered, and returned what Finch had told her before, "and that's all you need to know."

"One mob comes and the other goes," Clara said in return, "as long as we pay our deals, they leave us alone."

"There is going to be causalities, Clara—" she argued, her point, shaking her head, "—you know how it'll be once a war breaks out between the Russians and Elias."

Clara shook her head back at her, and took another drag from her cigarette. "The war is _already_ on, Lauren. The fact that you don't see flames yet doesn't mean there isn't a fire."

"Then help me," she said back, leaning further on her seat, the flatness in her voice turning into a sincere helplessness. She drew in a breath, and explained, "I have a witness, someone who can stop this and a man who could do much better than that but I lost contact with them in the Double "B"s." She paused for another breath. "I need to find them."

Clara took another drag, and let the smoke out, breathing hard. Her eyes were deadly serious under her veil as she looked at her, clearly judging her chances, their chances, then finally she nodded. "I know someone," she admitted, then moved back an inch to give her another look. "But you need a change of clothes," she said, her mouth turning down, "Your clothes scream _cop_ one hundred feet away."

Bowing her head, she looked at her dark leggings and her knee boots with thick mid-heels, and saw that Clara had a point. There was something with being a cop, something these people could tell at first glance. She had always believed she was spared that, but standing in front of her old friend, she understood she wasn't, not really. Clara spent her cigarette down in an astray on the bar, and nodded at her. "Come," she turned around with a smirk, "Let's get you suited up."

Slipping off the stool, she followed the alluring blond back stage. "You know you can always come back here," she commented with a smile, "Less life-threating, and I'd like to have the real Razor back."

One of her eyebrow raised, "The real Razor?"

"Yeah—" Clara answered, almost with a sigh, "The guys like it," she continued, "so the girls run your gig."

She halted in her steps. "You gave my outfit to other girls?"

Clara didn't blink, even briefly. "Check the contracts," she said, entering backstage, bypassing the countless hanging racks in open, "All belongs to the house," she turned to left, and stopped in front of another rack, and pushed the clothes aside to reveal the leather suit and thigh high boots she used to wear, "so I want them back cleaned."

Shifting her eyes from the outfit, she turned to Clara. "You don't expect me to wear a swimsuit in October, do you?"

"Oh, that's only for boots!" Clara exclaimed, hurryingly twisting aside to rummage through the hanging rack, and pulled out a black skirt in pleather, "wear this one, better than your pants," she said, throwing the mini skirt at her then looked at her leather jacket that fit her body like a bodice, "that should do it," she mumbled.

Taking the tight skirt and boots, she went towards one of the screens usually no one cared to use around here. Clara gave out a snicker behind her. "Always the private one," she remarked, laughing.

"I was the pole dancer, not the stripper," she retorted behind the dressing screen.

Two minutes later, she moved away from the screen, looking at the part of her legs that wasn't covered by the boots, her skin bare without any protection. "I'll catch cold," she commented with a murmur, taking her phone from the counter.

"The cost of looking good," Clara said, then held out her hand, and opened her palm.

Lifting her head from the phone, Lauren looked at the black artificial nails on her palm, "What happened to metallic grey?" she asked, picking up one, and felt the dullness at the edges, "These aren't sharp," she said, frowning, "How Razor can be Razor without sharp nails?"

Clara heaved a sigh. "The girls were cutting themselves with yours," she explained, "so I got them blunt."

"Amateurs," she shot back, then shrugged, offering her hand, "Well," she said, "I was going to get my nails done anyways."

Ten minutes later, she was typing in Clara's computer with her long nails as the other woman, albeit her protests, started straightening her hair. She then pulled it up in a tight ponytail and examined her hand work. "Okay, done," Clara announced, tilting her head aside. "You look—passable."

A sigh on the tip of her tongue, and a headache forming along her temples, she reached out to the thigh holster on the table and tied slim leather harness around her upper leg, and tucked her mouse gun inside. She then took her phone and called the traffic registration office. She could have asked Carter again to look for Finch's plate number, but she didn't want to involve the detective, at least not yet. She hadn't prepared her defenses yet.

Waiting for her contact to return to her, she started a quick make-up that would be adequate to her former persona. She lined her eyes with thicker eyeliner than the morning and brought out her lashes heavily with mascara. She was putting a blackberry lipstick as her phone rang. She answered with a terse Fusco, and listened to her contact to confirm what she had been expecting; the plate number belonged to a shell corp. She would have been surprised if it hadn't. A low grunt in her throat, she closed the phone then stood up, and turned on her heels to leave the place; she had lost time with Flare as it was. Just before she left the backstage, Clara called behind her back. "Lauren," her old friend said, "when this is done, come to see me, okay?" she asked, "Let us share a drink, talk about the old days."

She half turned, and looked at her, as sharp as Razor, "The past doesn't interest me," she said, "I only look ahead."

* * *

><p>At the other side of the street, she waited for Finch to show up, feeling every bit of October chill on her bare skin. For a moment, she thought of waiting in the car, but she had no idea what kind of a man she was going to meet, other than he was someone who could give orders even to John Reese, sometimes, mostly. Her common sense was telling her to wait in the car, but her instinct was saying the opposite, because it was still all about upholding appearances, even it meant freezing her ass to death.<p>

Aside, John Reese, if she was also going to need to deal with his boss, she preferred it to be on her turf, holding the upper hand, looking her best. Her Flare mention had surprised the other man. From the way he had momentarily hesitated over the line she had sensed it before she had closed the phone. She could understand. Her move had even surprised her. Bowing her head briefly, she glanced at her clothes, the dark leather and black fingernails. Huffing, she twisted aside, ignoring the looks she gathered as she stood up leaning against a wall, then her eyes picked up a man approaching her, limping a staccato in a sharp rhythm.

She couldn't be sure what made her single him out in the crowd, but something did, perhaps her instincts. Dressed impeccably in his suit, down to the flatly folded pocket square, he looked even more rigid than Reese, if it was possible. John's suits were expertly dressed, elegant but they always had an elasticity that his line of work needed to punch some sense into some thickheads. This man's suit had the conformity of one whose most distressful movement would be picking up his fork to his mouth. Their edges were different, too. John was a ticking time bomb, as stable as one, and always a second away from going off. This man though looked like nothing would set him off. His eyes were the color of a clear sky behind the Oxfordian glasses, as penetrating and still as an owl. They also had the unspoken elitism she had seen many times in her days in Law School. He reminded her of her former professors in Colombia, and almost begrudgingly, Lauren admitted if someone put this man into a Law class as a professor, no one would have questioned it.

Needless to say, Lauren didn't like him and the superiority that wrapped the man like a second skin. For a moment, she thought she was prejudiced then remembered what the man had called her. Her eyes sharpening, momentarily she felt glad of her _nails and heels_, as a smirk curved up her lips. "Don't be shy," she called to him as he stood a few feet away, staring at her from a safe distance, "I won't bite—" she smirked further, and closed in on him, "unless you ask."

He craned his neck towards her. "Detective," he said, not moving further, "may I learn why you're dressed like your former—alter ego?"

Her smirk turned into a smile. "Ah, you noticed." The man gave her a pointed look behind his spectacles. "I need to recruit a local contact to find our mutual friend," she explained, turning around to walk to her car. The man, limping, she caught with the corner of her eyes, followed. "And I needed a change of clothes," she said, and added what Clara had said, "I was told mine were screaming cop."

Giving her another look as he walked along beside her, the man nodded. "Do you have the contact?"

They arrived at her car and she opened the door. "Well, now I know where to find one," she answered, her eyes drifting towards Flare. She turned aside with a twirl of leather and got into the car. "We need to get him before things turn worse," she said inside the car.

The man agreed with her again with a nod. "Did you look into the plate number I gave you?"

She shook her head. "Yes, but nothing from there," she said flatly, starting the car, "It's a dead end, registered to a shell corp in midtown."

"Your contact—" he said, "Who is he?"

"A small-time dealer that frequents Flare," she answered, "Clara—" she said then amended fast, "Madame says he's around with the Russians."

With that, the man's mouth turned to a flat line. "The Russians might not be the only criminal operation looking for Charlie Burton."

"What?" she asked, "you mean, the Bulgarians?"

"No, Detective," he said sharply, "I don't mean the Bulgarians."

Her head snapped at him for a second away from the road, her eyes narrowed, "You think the plate belongs to Elias?"

"Maybe," Finch answered in rigidity, "You mentioned in your report that the victim spoke to Mr. Burton before he expired—"

"Wait a minute," she cut him off, "How do you know what's written in my report?" she asked but shook her head as soon as the words left her mouth, "Forget about it. Shouldn't have been surprised at that," she snarled, and asked instead, "How did you hack into our supposedly secure servers?"

Unaffected with her jab, he stiffly craned his neck to look at her. "Doesn't matter, Ms. Fusco," he eluded from the topic, "What matters is that whatever message Benny was passing along, it means a great deal to Elias."

"So you think the Russians want Burton dead because he witnessed them taking out Benny," she commented, almost in resignation, "and Elias wants him dead because he thinks he has sensitive information." The man nodded without a word. "Being caught between a rock and a hard place," she murmured, heaving a subsided sigh, her grip on the wheel tightening until she felt the blunt tip of her nails inside her palms, "not his lucky day."

"No it's not," Finch confirmed, then gave her another look. "That car—" he said, "I need you to report it stolen," and instructed, "Then email the report number to this address." He took a blank white card out of his pocket that only had an email address on the front, and extended it to her.

Her eyes still on the road, she took the card, and tucked it inside the pocket of her jacket. The rest of the drive passed in silence, as it was also the norm with Reese, and ten minutes later she parked two blocks away from the pub Clara had given her the address. Before she got out, she drew in a breath then turned to the taciturn man sitting next to her. "If I don't return in fifteen minutes, call Carter," she said. "Tell her that Burton would be in the Double "B"s."

In silence, the man nodded. She drew out another breath, and briefly feeling the mouse gun under her skirt with her fingertips, she left the car. It wasn't her trusty Glock, of course, but it was still something.

The sun was already set, as she walked to the pub, streets already darkened. Her nose picked up the bitter scent of the poverty, gloomy and murky, mixed with the mud in the broken cobblestones, and caked with dirt and pitch tar. Her heels clinked on the broken ground under her feet, but she still walked purposefully, strutting with a moderate pace, carefully placing the platform soles of the shoes on the road, holding up appearances no matter what. Her head high, her ears deaf to the murmurs behind, her eyes blind to the looks she was receiving, she was the Razor. She could do anything.

The pub was at the corner. She swaggered inside, and directly walked toward the bar with the same swagger. The night was still young, but the pub was already crowded. All heads turned to her as she strutted to the bar, showing off a generous amount of bare legs that she had already started feeling icy chills on. She slipped onto the bar stool, and asked for a glass of whiskey from the bar. The muscled man behind the counter gave her a look, but fixed the drink. He pushed the glass in front of her on the counter then asked, "Anything else?"

She flashed a smirk at him. "And I want a man."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "A specific one?" he asked.

She smirked wider. "Nikolaj Drogo. I know he hangs around here," she said further, without touching the glass in front of her, "I need to talk to him." He didn't say anything back. She leaned toward the counter and fixed her eyes at him. "I _really_ need to talk to him."

Giving her a last look, the barman turned aside, and shouted towards the left corner of the room. "Niko!"

She twisted to left and saw a blond man in his late twenties lift his head up from the corner where he perched on the stool around a long round table, giving them a questioning look. The barman only pointed her with his head. The younger man's eyes traveled over her, his eyes lingering over thigh high boots, then slowly stood up from his stool. He walked to them then hovered over her at the bar. Swiveling on the bar's stool, she turned to him. "Take a seat, Nikolaj," her words slurred a little as she nodded her head at the stool in front of her. "Madame says you can help me find a friend."

The young Bulgarian man didn't make a move where he stood, only shook his head. "Look, I don't want any trouble."

"Then take a seat," she repeated in the same throaty slur, caressing the hem of her right boot with her finger.

The man's eyes drew to the pointed edge of her nail, then slowly as if someone was forcing him from his back, he sat down on the stool. "What are you looking for?"

"Yogorov's men opened fire today in broad daylight," she answered, "I want the man they're shooting at."

Nikolaj shook his head agitatedly. "I don't know anything about that." She tilted her head aside, and gave him a clear look that said she didn't buy it. He made a move to stand up. "I swear I don't—"

She stopped him propping the knee she had been playing with against his stool, just between his legs. "Madame said you wouldn't disappoint me," she said, hooking the back of her ankle around the stool's foot bar as the man lowered himself back, then pulled her leg toward herself an inch. The stool with the young man slid closer to her, "You wouldn't, would you, _Niko_?"

The young Bulgarian's eyes grew frantically wider. She knew in his mind the young man passed the girl he was in love with. Raising her ankle up in plantar position, she placed her foot between his, and waited patiently until he came to conclusion. "Yogorov wants him dead before dawn," he muttered at last.

"Are they still in the Double "B"s?" she asked, consciously adding "still" in her words. Better to know if the young man didn't understand she didn't actually know anything.

The Bulgarian nodded. She let out a breath covertly. At last she had managed to confirm it. "It's going to be a messy business," he continued, "I heard Yogorov sent his children."

That was the part that made little sense. They were wary of Elias, that much she had already understood, but sending your own progeny after a witness... "Why is Yogorov so worked up with it?" she asked.

The young man shook his head. "You don't understand..." he said, still shaking his head, "Elias...he's dangerous, everyone knows it. He brings different rules. No one even knows how he looks. But Yogorov fears. Because he knows they're standing at a crossroad."

What Carter had told about Mrs. d'Agostino's echoed in her mind... _"Brighton Beach is just a beginning. Elias has bigger plans." _Her frown went deeper. "What's special with Brighton Beach?" she inquired further, trying to get inside their enemy's head at least.

"Do you know Don Moretti?" the Bulgarian man asked.

Remembering the former Italian mafia head, she nodded. "He had an illegitimate son. People believe Elias is that kid," Nikolai said.

"The last place Moretti ran before he got locked up was Brighton Beach," she muttered, remembering her old briefs, and Nikolaj nodded back at her.

"He's back to claim his birthright," the young man announced, and she could say almost mockingly, if she hadn't heard the bleak dismay in his undertones. He then gave her a look in all seriousness. "I don't know who you are or why you're looking for those men, but you wouldn't want to get caught in the middle of this," he warned, "there is gonna be a bloodbath."

"That's what I'm trying to prevent, Nikolaj," she said, turning her attention to the man, and remembering where her focus would be, "Your people...what do they say about it?"

The Bulgarian let out a subsided sigh. "The guy with Burton hit one of the labs of Vasil and stole some stuff," he said, and she almost smiled. That seemed like the Reese she knew, but then the man continued, "Vasil is furious. He asked a meeting with Yogorov's sons," he said as her back straightened, "They're gonna meet in half an hour. I think he'll let them get in."

Leaning forward, she clutched the man at his collar, and pulled him toward her, "Where?" she hissed at his face, "where are they in the complex?"

"Fourth floor, the North Tower," the young man stuttered. Releasing him, she jumped down off the stool, and ran to the back exit.

Outside she continued running, the four inch heels giving sturdy staccato beats on the ground, until she saw her car. Opening the door, she threw herself in. "We need to get the blueprints of the Double "B"s," she said, even before sitting on the driver seat, "The Russians are meeting with Bulgarians for a deal," she explained, "And Bulgarians will let them in. We need to warn John."

"City planning office should have the old blueprints," he said, his eyes still fixed at his computer's screen. She moved aside and saw that the man was looking at that car she still needed to report as stolen. "Do you know where they are exactly?" he asked, minimizing the window down, and pulled up another black window.

"Yes, fourth floor, north tower," she answered rapidly then inquired, "Can you find me a clean way to get in?"

The question had the man's head snap up at her, the blue eyes looking at her owlishly, as if he couldn't believe what his ears had heard. "Do you want to get in the Double "B"s?" he asked, with the same stiff wonder.

"We need to alert them," she said, stubbornly ignoring the surprise that was etched in his tone, "or they would get caught unawares."

And she wouldn't accept that. She had risked too much, had gotten back inside her old circles, even donned this stupid outfit that froze her ass to death, and she was _not_ going to give up now. For a moment, she didn't speak, let the man come to his own conclusion, but he only kept looking at her, unblinking eyes staring at her in a way that made her terribly uncomfortable. She didn't like the look, nor did she like the man himself, and it didn't change anything. The bottom line was she needed his help as much as he needed hers. "Mr. Finch," she called him with a clear voice, "Will you help me?"

Wordlessly the man turned back to his computer. "Two service entrances," he announced a few seconds later, his eyes scanning the blueprints into the archives he had hacked into, "the one the closest to north tower is in northeast corridor."

She nodded, and started the car. She drove until she came to a block away from the Double "B"s then stopped the car. Before she left the car, the enigmatic man offered her a wireless ear piece. "Put it on," he said, "we need to be in contact."

Nodding, she took the wireless, and pushed it inside her ear, then got out of the car. She ran toward northeast until she arrived at the backside of the enormous complex, a housing project that looked like the same one she had passed her own childhood in, the same grimness, the same bleakness, the same harshness, and the same horrid stench of destitution caked with desperation.

Shaking her head, she pulled herself out of her childhood memories and pulled out her picklock under the arm of her jacket to open the service door. Stepping inside she was greeted with a small damp room that had a single rusty elevator with a yellow cross over its entrance, warning "out of service" in bold black letters.

Cursing silently, she walked to the opposite side of the room where a push bar door stationed. She pushed the bar down and slipped inside. The service stairs were even worse than the elevator, rusting away. Remembering the construction elevator platform she had seen outside along the northern wall, she walked out back. Standing outside, she saw the short metal ladder that led to the platform. Climbing on the ladder, she mounted to the platform, and kicked the lever at the corner to move it up. The crude lift started escalating with the grunt of heavy metal, creating a chilly wind that billowed around her hair as it went up. With a shiver, she hugged herself, her arms crossed over her chest, gazing down at the street. For a moment, the scene seemed so surreal that she couldn't believe herself to be here, on the top of a service platform, wearing her old costume, to save two men's asses that she only knew by name. She must be mad, really mad, but the problem was that she wasn't feeling mad, in fact she was feeling like it was the most sensible thing she had ever done in her life. Apparently, the Razor had turned to the Good Samaritan.

She shook her head at the last thought, almost sniffing, then the platform suddenly stopped. She looked down first, trying to understand what had happened, then took the lever and pushed it forward... once, twice, three times, but it was no use. It stayed where it was. Letting out an unbelieving grunt, she touched on the wireless piece Finch had given to her. "The service platform broke down," she said, looking upwards, her tone ridiculously calm for being stranded in the middle of the air, "Where is the first-_safe_ entrance?"

"Two floors above, the service elevator," Finch immediately answered, and asked, his voice carrying over doubt, "are you going to climb up?"

"Do you have any better idea?" she asked, holding the metal bars at the corner of the cage and pulling herself up to stand on the margin.

The man didn't answer that, and she was glad. She preferred her concentration stayed on the job in front of her. If the mechanism was just a pole it wouldn't have caused her any problem, she could climb on it as effortlessly as a cat climbed a tree but it wasn't _just_ a pole. The ladder that the platform moved along sat on a rusty rack and pinion mechanism that held between two slim, and like everything in old the building, rusting bars.

Placing her feet carefully at the corners of the make-shift ladder, she started to climb. With a curse, she pulled up the tight skirt over her hips to move up faster, her pace quick but still wary, her balance tipped on sharp heels. As wary as she was though, she still lost her sure footing a few times before she arrived to the fourth floor, her hands covered with sweat, her hair clinging over her face with the beating wind.

Letting out a deep breath, she pulled the hair out of her eyes, and closed them for a moment, feeling victorious. But her joy of victory was short-lived as opening her eyes, she saw the crack in the hoist way of the elevator was still a head up above her head. Muttering another curse, she bowed her head, readying her body for a leap, but before she jumped up, her right foot slipped. Her grip slipping, she started sliding downward too, until she reached up and grabbed one of the bars above her head. She stood motionless, hanging in the air with only one hand, acutely aware of the pain in her inner thigh, a slick wetness over her skin. Giving out a rough scream, she placed her trembling legs on the ladder again, and bowed her head. Her eyes watering with tears of pain, she looked at her right leg and saw the redness over her skin, blood slowly seeping through a wound in her inner thigh where a two inch splinter of metal had driven into her flesh. Her muscles trembling, she rested her forehead on the metal bar, biting her lips, her breathing labored with pain and effort.

"What's happened?" Finch's voice echoed in her ear, as she breathed roughly, "Ms. Fusco... are you okay?"

"Just peachy," she ground out, "just peachy," and repeated, readying herself to move up. As soon as she moved her leg, the muscles around her thigh protested loudly, sending the jolts of pain throughout her body, and this time she swallowed it back, muffling the voice, pressing her mouth on her arm. "Ms. Fusco..." Finch called her again.

For a few seconds, she didn't respond, only snuffed with low breaths, then mumbled, "I'm fine... just have a nail in my leg," she explained, "I—I lost my balance."

"Are you okay?" the man asked again.

She let out a sob-laughter. "Have seen better days," she shot back with difficulty, then, drawing another deep breath in, she started moving up again. Either the pain had lessened, or she had just gotten accustomed to it, she wasn't sure, but this time she managed to actually move, putting carefully one foot up then another, pins and needles all over her skin, the wind in the upper levels beating her mercilessly.

Arriving at the top of the metal bars, she mounted arduously, and crouched on the small narrow edge that the crude platform lift docked against. Her inner thigh was still aching, but ignoring the throbbing pain, she leveled her eyes up, and focused on the crack above. Half an hour, Nikolaj had said, and she had certainly lost more than fifteen minutes trying to climb up the make-shift ladder, and another five on the road until they had arrived to the Double "B"s, and it meant she had less than ten minutes until she found Reese and Burton, and got them to safety.

Not losing any time, she braced her hands on the crack above her head then bracing herself for the pain, she leaped in the air, and pulled herself up. Swinging her legs up, she tumbled into the service elevator on her elbows. It was the least graceful move she had ever done in her life, but lying on her back in the elevator she couldn't bring herself to care, her bottom lip between her teeth to block the scream she felt rising at the back of her throat.

Her eyes still closed, she tasted the blood inside her mouth then understood she had also bitten her tongue as the blood slipped through the corner of her mouth. Rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth, she mounted on her feet, balancing herself with a hand on the wooden siding of the service elevator then pressed at the 4 on the level. The doors opened, and she walked out into northeast corridor.

Finally.

Standing in the corridor, she tried to get her head clear. That was the tricky part. So little time left, and he could be anywhere in the north wing, which meant she had almost forty apartments to check. Under the sepia tones of artificial lights of the corridor, she listened to pick up anything she could, but the only thing she heard was the absolute silence. It was like the apartment complex itself knew what was about to happen, its dwellers nestled inside the security of their homes, which meant even less than normal. There was no way to choose one way from another, so she started with the first one her eyes caught, and placed her ear on the door. She heard a faint television sound at the next second, so she moved to the next, casting a look at her right leg.

The nail was still there, and without a first-aid kit, there wasn't anything she could do about it. She could only hope Reese had robbed that lab for medicinal purposes. There were sounds in the second apartment—the kinds of that people usually did in the bed, so she passed that too, quicker than the last. The third one was silent.

She knocked once, and waited until the sound bounced back to her. Pulling out her picklock, she worked on the lock, and invited herself in a few seconds later. Turning her back to the wall, first she swept the dark hall with careful eyes, then living room, and just before she moved to left at the corner, a hand grabbed her at the neck then twirled her roughly. The next instant, her body pushed against the wall as she felt the blood rushed over her skin.

Giving out a rasping howl, her hands moved in the air and stretched the face of the attacker in the dark, her fingers were like claws. She cursed mentally at Clara for getting the pointed nails blunt as the attacker caught her hands in a strong grip and pressed them down on either side of the head on the wall. She hissed out a rough tsk, pushing her body off the wall, and slid toward the man further into light, her shoulder blades still pressed on the wall as her arms.

Her unwounded leg already rose toward his crotch for a well-aimed kick, but seeing the face of her attacker, she stopped dead. The man she had been looking for since the morning did the same too, his hands still holding hers up above her head, then his brows furrowed. "Lauren," Reese whispered, his familiar rasp projecting the astonishment he couldn't hide, "what are you doing _here_?"

Despite everything, a smile broke over her lips. She had found them. She had found him. "Came to find you," she said, still smiling, as his eyes cast down, toward her leg, then as if he had attacked her again, she jolted back and broke his grip. "Where is Burton?" she asked, clutching his arm, looking frantically around the room to spot the man, "We need to get him out." She turned to him. "They're coming!"

* * *

><p><em>Writing this chapter was great fun for me, as I finally got Lauren as a true anti-heroine, with costumes and all ;) I hope reading it was enjoyable for you, too.<em>

_Cheers._


	14. Chapter XIII

_Dear Ray, you have a great timing! Not because I have this finally ready last night just after your review, but also because I was wondering if anyone was really reading *and* enjoying the story, and your review came just like a sign from God above :D Thank you. I appreciated it, a lot._

_**Chapter XIII – Ungrateful**_

* * *

><p>"They're coming!" Lauren exclaimed, and made a move to step out of his way, but his arm stopped her, pulling her back against the wall.<p>

"Who's coming?" Reese asked, looking at her, then his gaze lowered, lingering above her boots, "and what happened to your leg?" he questioned, returning his attention to her, but she felt the unspoken inquiry behind the words. _And why are you in these clothes?_

She shook her head. "Bulgarians—Russians made a deal with them. They'll let them get inside to purge you out," she said, "and Finch got me—"

His voice raising an octave, he cut her off, "Finch!" he took a step closer, "you talked with Finch?"

The astonishment she had seen earlier grew more in the frown between his eyebrows. "When you went missing, he called me," she explained simply.

A scowl accompanied the frown, grim lines around his lips flattening, but the next moment as if deciding to be practical, he held her arm. "Come—" He pulled her to his side, this time carefully, "We need to tend your wound."

Pulling herself out of his grip, she shook her head in frustration, "God, you're not listening to me. I said they're coming. We need to get out." Her eyes swept around the room again. "Where is Burton?"

"I'm here," came the answer in a deep baritone voice, as a plump figure stepped out of shadows from her left side, "I'm Charlie Burton, but who are _you_?" the man asked, his eyes skeptically fixed on her.

"I'm—" she started but Reese interrupted, "She's the detective I talked to you about," he told the other man.

"The detective I can trust?" the man asked, and her head snapped at Reese, as Burton continued, looking at her, "she doesn't look like a cop."

"And that's the whole point, isn't it?" she shot back, moving her attention to the man for a fraction, then turned to Reese again, "Now since we're done with introductions, can we please move out?"

Getting into business, Reese gave her a searching look. "Can you walk?"

Shaking her head, she huffed. "Sweetheart, I just climbed four stories with a nail in my thigh," she remarked sarcastically, "so yes, I think I can walk."

Without returning that with a retort, Reese asked, "What's the quickest route out of here? Finch got the blueprints?"

Nodding, she bent down, slightly twisting aside from the men, and passed her hand under her skirt to pull out her mouse gun from the hidden holster. "Yes," she answered, straightening back, "there is a service entrance in the northeast corridor. But the elevator is out of, uh—service," she said, and gave him an almost hopeful look, "Can you fix it?" Getting up into the building had been like hell, and she couldn't even imagine how it would be getting down on the mechanism with a civilian on their tail.

Reese must have thought the same thing, too, she knew from the way his eyes skipped to the bald man. "Yes," he confirmed, and she let out a small sigh of relief. He then pulled a gun from his back, and turned to Burton. "Have you ever used one of these," he asked, holding out the weapon, but Burton flinched back toward the door as if the gun had burned him.

"No," he refused, shaking his head, "no, no...The last time I used a gun I shot at my foster father's cans but accidently killed a bird—" The man shook his head again, his blue eyes widening behind his spectacles, "not my favorite childhood memory."

Limping slightly, she got between them. "In that case," she said, her fingers snitching the gun from Reese's grip. "I'm taking this." She loaded the magazine and racked it, and turned to Burton, "Don't worry. I'll cover you."

Bending down, she hid the mouse gun again, acutely aware of the eyes the men fixed at her then straightening back, nodded at Reese. He opened the door, and they headed to the service entrance, flanking the school teacher. At the corner, Reese turned right, but stopped and pulled back, holding his hand up into a fist. She stopped as soon as she saw the gesture and halted the school teacher with her arm. Over his shoulder, she leaned forward, and peeked at the corridor. Three men, their guns in their hands, were sweeping the corridor, murmuring to each other with harsh Russian accents. Turning around, Reese pointed to the other side. As he got in front of them, Lauren closed in on Burton, her shoulder touching over the short mans', defiantly ignoring the ache around her thigh.

"Stay here," Reese said as he moved away from them, knocking at the first door. He heard a noise as the murmurs from the other side of corridor got closer. She craned her neck to her right side, her ears alert to the sound of any movement, as Reese moved to another apartment. Her eyes stayed trained on the corridor, too, her grip on the gun tight, as she saw Reese starting to break into the apartment with the corner of her eye.

"Come on," she urged, as murmurs turned into actual words, so close to them now, "They're coming."

At that moment, a soft young voice called behind them, "Mr. Burton?"

Stationing herself in front of Burton, she turned around as a young boy walked toward them from the south side of the corridor, his eyes clouded in question. "Mr. Burton—" he called the teacher's name again, "What are you doing here?"

Burton first gave a look at Reese who was examining the young boy carefully, then said, "Hey, Will—" he shifted his look again at Reese, "Uh—I—came in looking for a short cut, me and—my friends—" he shook a hand towards them, "we—uh—got lost—" Burton finished lamely as Lauren heard one of the men say, "Check the south side..."

They all exchanged a look, the young boy's face now closed off. "Come on, my father isn't at home," he said, clearly understanding what was happening, "You can hide inside." He pulled aside, and showed them the apartment to his side, opening the door.

They moved toward the apartment, just before she saw the first Russian man at the end of the corridor. "Thanks, Will," Burton said, as they secured themselves behind the closed door.

Standing in the middle of his living room, the young boy shrugged. "It's okay, Mr. Burton," he said, "You're the best teacher I've ever gotten." As Lauren walked toward a table in the corner, she saw Reese's lips pulled out a faint smile, looking at the student and the teacher. She dropped herself on a chair, as Will and Burton talked about a home assignment Burton had given him and placed the gun on the table, letting out a weary silent sigh. She moved her eyes toward her leg then raised her leg on the empty chair in front of her, carefully holding the back of her kneecap. "Do you have a first-aid kit?" she asked their host, bending over her leg.

Will nodded with a "yeah" and got lost behind, she presumed, the bathroom door, as Reese approached her. She acknowledged neither him nor the curious looks he was giving, instead keeping her eyes stoically on the wound, her head bowed.

"How did it happen?" he questioned with a voice so low she almost couldn't hear him. She then understood he was doing it purposely to force her to look at him. That was a trick of his she had understood earlier, possibly also the reason why he always talked with that distinctive husky slur, to get people closer to him to hear him, whether to be intimidating or sincere. This time though she couldn't see which of them he was trying to be.

Her face souring, she kept her head bowed, and murmured, "A splinter stuck while I climbed the rack and pinion mechanism of the construction elevator outside the building."

Under her bowed head, her eyes caught the look on his face. "What the hell were you doing up there, may I ask, Ms. Fusco?" he asked, his tone edged with frustration.

The question had her head snap up at him, her eyes storming. "Why, I was trying to save your ass, Mr. Reese, what _else_?"

Without a word, without even a smirk he looked at her, his eyes penetrating through hers, and she realized what she had actually said. A heat burst out of her, burning her cheeks and her neck, as she felt the fire rising up inside her veins. She quickly bowed her head again, mostly to run away from his eyes.

She bent over her wound again, staring at it, waiting for him to leave her alone. But he didn't. He stood hovering above her. She decided to ignore him again, but from her left side she heard a soft moan. Reese's attention shifted there as her eyes moved over Burton too, who sat on the couch, his head lolled over the edge, his face pale as a ghost. Her eyes caught the redness over the blue shirt.

"What happened to him?" she asked, moving her attention from the man to Reese, feeling relieved that his was no longer fixed on her.

"He was shot," he answered, his eyebrows tightening, "I—tended it with the stuff I—borrowed from a met lab downstairs but—" he stopped, turning to her.

She narrowed her eyes, and lowered her voice into a whisper. "We might need to pass the night here," she said, "is he—is he going to hold up, all right?"

He nodded. "Yes," he answered, almost defiantly, "Yes, he will. He's a tough guy."

She looked at the man. His face had the color of ash, breathing labored, his clothes distorted as much as the rest of his body. He shouldn't have this experience. He should be in his home, preparing other assignments to torture his students. This was not right, it was not—fair.

Feeling another surge of heat hitting her, this time for a different reason, she bowed her head again. Will came out of the bathroom the next second and brought the first aid kit. As he put it on the table, she gave the young boy a half but sincere smile, and pulled the red container closer to her.

She opened the lid at the same time Reese turned his attention back to her once again. Then without a word, he picked up her leg from the chair. Her head shot up at him, staring at him as he sat down on the chair where her leg had occupied a few seconds ago and rested it over his knee. His eyes moved up over her leg toward her thigh where the blood caked around the wound then under her skirt, his eyes caught a glimpse of the holster she had tied around her leg.

His hands rose and went under her skirt. She almost flinched back, but he gripped her leg. "How long it has been there?" he asked, removing the holster.

Keeping her face neutral despite the hands that were passing over her inner thighs, she answered, "Around half an hour," she answered, her eyes fixed above his head, "I wrapped it before I left Flare, but ten minutes ago I fixed it as a tourniquet when it started bleeding worse."

He put the holster with the mouse gun next to the first aid kit then asked, "These are coming from Flare?" he asked, leveling his eyes up toward her over her leg clad in leather.

Without a word, she nodded. "Why did you go to Flare?" he questioned further, "It was a dangerous move."

She threw her head back in frustration, biting back a scream of frustration. "Brighton Beach isn't exactly my precinct, if you didn't notice," she bit off, "I needed to find a local contact."

"That was what I was wondering, Lauren," he shot back without missing a beat, "How exactly did you get involved with Benny d'Agostino's shooting?" he asked, his hands moving over this time toward the wound, "Brighton Beach isn't your precinct."

She lifted her head up at him, a bitter smile on her lips. "I think we have to thank to your number one fan for that." Reese gave her a questioning look. "A detective from organized crime figured out it was related to Elias, and called Carter into the investigation." Her eyes grew pointed, as her smile turned into smirk, "and that was what I was wondering, _John_," she said, "What's it that Carter has with Elias?"

"Are you asking _me_?" he asked back, poking out the splinter, "it's your job to find out, Lauren."

She hissed out a tsk, throwing her head back again as the other occupants of the room's attention shifted toward them, "Don't worry, I _will_," she forced out.

His hand halted over the splinter, "This is going to hurt," he warned before he touched it again.

Shaking her head, she grounded out, "For God's sake, just take it out."

And he did, without hesitating he pulled it with a sudden but swift motion. Pain for a moment blackened almost everything, and she slipped away from the chair, letting out a rough growl. Her hands gripped the edge of the chair tightly to stop her fall, tears welling inside her eyes. She closed them and bit her inner cheek to keep them at bay. "Are you okay?" Reese asked, and it was the stupidest question she had _ever _heard.

"I've been better," she rasped, pulling herself back on the chair, her eyes still closed.

"You look good."

The observation had come in another whispered tone, hushed out in simplicity as his fingertips poked her flesh around the open wound gently, and despite hearing it _clearly, _for a moment she couldn't believe it. She lifted her head and opened her eyes as he cleaned the wound, "Will can't take his eyes off you," he continued with the same tone, dabbing her skin carefully with peroxided cotton. Her eyes moved toward the young boy who was shooting at zombies currently, who at the same moment gave a quick glance at her. When his eyes met with hers, he quickly turned back to zombies. She frowned. "You just got his brain eaten up by zombies," Reese said, grimacing at the game on the TV.

"I needed a change of clothes," she repeated the same thing she had told Finch, but this time instead of running her eyes away she held his daringly, "Mine were screaming cops."

"So you borrowed your old—attire?" he asked back, wrapping the wound with bandage.

Giving him a smirk, she raised up her hand over his face. "If these were really _mine_, you would have born the souvenirs of them over your face for the rest of your life."

Reflecting her smirk back, he put down her leg, and stood up. He hovered above her, as she lifted her head up. "Look around to see if you can find something to wear," he ordered, "as good as you look, you're also freezing."

"The cost of looking good," she shot back Clara's words, standing up from the seat, balancing her weight with a hand pressed on the chair's arm. She then turned to Will. "Hey, Will," she called the younger man, approaching him, as she put another smile on her lips, "Can I ask another favor?"

Will looked like she could even ask for his life, as he stood up, setting the joystick on the couch. "I need a change of clothes," she explained, widening her lips, "Can you help me?"

The boy nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I—I—uh—we could find something from my old stuff," he answered, walking to his room.

She followed him. His place was a five square little room whose walls were covered with posters from the comic book movies as the same comic books lay around the every possible space with thrown clothes. She zigzagged between the books and clothes and sat on his bed. He went to his wardrobe and began rummaging through it. "I should have cargo pants here—" he muttered, bent down over the wardrobe, "My father shrunk them last week while washing them," he explained, "I haven't taken them to Church yet."

She looked at the back of the young man, her eyes shifting over the room that showed off the poverty they were living in. "You bring old clothes to the Church?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

The young boy turned back to her, his hand holding a pair of black cargo pants. "Yeah," he answered, shrugging, "When they become too small for me but still look good enough to be passable." A sheepish grin appeared over his face as he handed out the pants to her. "My father says I'm growing on every day."

Smiling genuinely, she took the pants from him as he turned back. "I have another pair of sneakers too," he said, bending under his bed, "but I'm not sure if you could wear those."

Unzipping her boots, she shook her head. "No, it's okay. I'll—wear my boots. The pants are wide enough."

She unzipped the skirt the next then fitted her frozen legs into the warm chino cloth, the pleather of her boots moving over the cloth with difficulty. Then her eyes caught her heels, feeling accurately the ache in her thigh. With a sigh, she bent down. Clara wasn't going to like it, but she preferred the dislike of the blond over the ache in her thigh. Fisting her hand around the metallic length of the heel, she split it off the sole of the boot.

A disappointed look appeared over Will's face as she did the same with the other heel. She stood up and walked around the room experimentally to have a feel of the broken heels. It wasn't as bad as she had thought it would be; the balance was tipped off, slightly, toward the left, but it wasn't something that would give her trouble, especially when she realized how much less pressure the boots now had over the wound.

She gave Will another smile, walking toward the door, "Thanks, Will," she said, leaving the room.

"Don't mention it," Will said back, smiling sheepishly, as they walked in the corridor, "They look better on you than on me anyway."

She let out a low laugh at that, giving the young boy a wider smile, then over the threshold of the living room, she heard whispered voices. "Are you sure we can trust her?" Burton asked, as she grabbed Will at his arm, and pulled him back toward her at the corner before he entered into the room. "She really doesn't look like a cop," the school teacher continued with the same hushed tones, as she put her forefinger on her lips as Will looked at her questioningly.

Moving her attention away from Will, she peeked over the corner, and saw Reese giving Burton a look, as he tended his shoulder. "She's fine," he murmured, pulling the man's shirt over. He made a move to straighten back but Burton didn't let him go. He clutched Reese's hand.

"Are you really sure?" Burton asked again, his words almost imploring, "I heard what you two talked about. Brighton Beach _isn't_ her precinct but she still knows stuff—and the Russian showed up as the same time she did," the school teacher went on as Reese gave him that look. She narrowed her eyes. "Maybe she's trying to bait us," Burton concluded, still looking for an answer from Reese.

She waited too, her hand still tight around Will's arm, narrowed her eyes to slits, wanting to hear Reese's answer. Reese opened his mouth, but before he could speak a thick thud echoed in the apartment. His head snapped at the door just like hers. Giving the school teacher a quick look, he neared to the door and checked outside through the peep hole.

Another knock followed, along with murmurs with clear Russian accent. Upon hearing it, she quickly moved away from her post, dragging Will together with her. "What's happening," she asked, walking out of the corridor, her voice in her usual business tone, not even a hint that would suggest to what she had been listening to. Slanting a simple look at her, Reese only raised his gun and pulled the safety with his other hand; even if he was aware of her spying, there was no inclination of it in his posture or face. "Russians," he said sotto voce, and waved his hand at Will.

The young boy glanced at his teacher before he moved to the door, his pace slow and cautious as Burton stood up from the coach, and braced one hand on the wall, breathing heavily under his bowed head. The ire she had felt at the man's words almost vaporized seeing him like that, his eyes apologetically looking at his student, knowing that he had brought a big problem down on all of his family's head. Pulling out her gun from the holster, she approached the door, and flanked Will from the opposite side of Reese, who gave Will an encouraging nod.

Will jarred the door open an inch, leaving the door chain locked. He looked the intruders over it, as with the corner of her eyes she caught the glimpse of a tall man with dark hair leaning over it to peek inside. "Hey, little man," he called with a lazy drawl, "You all alone in there?"

She saw Will's back straighten as he looked at the Russian back. "What does it look like?"

The man gave him a small smile. "Why don't you let me in, so I can make sure?" he inquired, leaning forward, as Reese straightened his gun tighter on the door, just directly at the direction of the man's head.

"My papa taught me better than to let strangers inside our place," Will answered, keeping his eyes firmly focused ahead, not even a glance at them, "especially punks." Lauren silently exhaled at his last words, recognizing the back bone of the youth, but it was a stupid move, one that would bite them off the ass, and her assumption prove itself correct as the Russian man leaned further over the jar door, his smile turning into a predator smirk. "Is that right?" he asked.

"That's right," Will answered, not backing down, "He also said that _vory_ are supposed to show respect to one another," he said pointedly.

The Russian man gave him a long look as Reese stood like a strained bow at the other side, ready to leap into action at any moment, his lips tightly pressed down. She readied herself for the fight too, bracing her weight on her left hip, her hand getting tighter around her gun, but the next moment the Russian man nodded at Will. "Your papa's a smart man," he said, almost an appreciative tone in his words, "You be good, kid."

Will closed the door after that quickly and unceremoniously, and returned to Reese. He held up a finger in the air, stopping the young man and checked over the peep hole to make sure that their company was really gone.

The next moment, he stepped back. Burton let out a big whimper from where he stood against the wall, looking at the young boy. "Thanks, Will," the bald man muttered, shaking his head.

"It's all good, Mr. Burton," Will said, shrugging but with a small smile, "You're really the best teacher I've got."

Reese smiled a bit at that, too, but Lauren shook her head, and interrupted the moment. "We need to go," she announced, "We can't stay here anymore."

Burton slanted a look at Reese, full of question and uncertainty, and she pretended she didn't notice it. Reese turned to him. "Can you make it to the service elevator?"

"I don't know—" he answered, his words labored and slurred, "The painkillers sort of wore off." He bowed his head and looked at his trembling legs, and their eyes followed too. She gave Reese a head-shake. "He needs rest," she said, letting a breath out. Reese nodded.

"There's an apartment down in the hall that's been abandoned for years," Will said, "You can hide there for the night."

They nodded at him again gratefully, Reese holding his shoulder as he passed him by to get Burton. He supported the school teacher on his shoulder and moved back to the door. "I'll see you in class, Will," Burton called before Lauren opened the door and checked the corridor.

Seeing the empty corridor, she turned and pointed at Reese who moved out of the apartment with Burton. Just before she followed them out, she half pivoted her body to give Will a last look. "Thanks, Will," she said, her hand on the handle, "For everything."

She closed the door behind, and felt that thing again, the kindness of people in the places you least expect it. Her eyes fell on Reese and Burton in front of her, as Reese dragged the other along with him, his arm protectively wrapped over his shoulders, his gun tight in his other hand. For a moment she really wondered what he was going to say Burton, was he really going to say she was fine, she couldn't do it, couldn't sell them out? Apparently, he must have done so once, had called her a detective "he can trust". Then what was that look he had given to Burton... Was she reading it too much or was there really suspicion there? And why exactly did it matter? It wasn't like it was the first time she had seen _that_ look on someone.

She shook her head, as if to clear it, a heat slowly burning in her veins, feeling the same thing she had felt for Burton an hour ago... It wasn't right, it wasn't—fair. As ridiculous as it sounded, she'd come here to help, not the other way around.

A moment later they arrived at the empty apartment Will had mentioned and Reese opened the door for them, still holding Burton closely at his side. Lauren covered the corridor with her eyes, pulling her wandering mind to where it belonged, solely trained on the danger that might wait for them at the next corner. She walked backwards through the open door, her eyes still focused on the corridor. Reese closed it as she crossed the threshold, and she looked at the ruins of the dank apartment.

Heavy stale air assaulted her nose at first, together with the smell of dewy dark interior. The peeled coating of the walls was scattered all around the greasy floor, the old woodblocks sticking and stinking with something she didn't want to know. Some of the walls were wrecked down too, supporting wide openings between the rooms, making the whole apartment even more haunted and deserted. "Well, we know why it was empty for years now," she said, quirking her lips down as Reese leaned down Burton over the sole couch in the corner of the room that she guessed once had been the living area of the house.

Without commenting on her quip, he walked back to the door and checked out the corridor through the peep hole. "The Russians seemed like they left this corridor," he commented, and pulled back. "We'll spend the night here then take the first ferry in the morning."

She nodded, her eyes skipping toward the man on the couch. "Sounds like a plan." Then he noticed he was still at the door. She moved to the corridor and saw him sitting on the floor next to the door at guard, his back against the wall. Giving a look at the dirt on the floor, she sighed out loud then settled at the opposite corner of him beside the door. She placed the gun next to her, and closing her eyes, dropped her head against the wall. She tried to get things in order in her burning mind, her forehead damp with sweat beads, heat emitting through her temples. Just an hour ago, her whole case was to get inside this damn building, and find her witness and Reese, and now...it seemed...she didn't know...stupid? For all the things she had done, for all the trouble she had endured, the only thing she had received was that look.

Her hands tightening into fists, her jaw clenched forcibly as another surge of heat emitted all over her body, her temples throbbing. She passed the back of her hand over her forehead, and felt the wetness, the beaded sweat drops on her skin. Briefly she wondered if the heat was caused merely by cold or was the product of an infection of her wound. She let out a grunt; just the thing she needed.

"Are you okay?" she heard Reese ask.

Her head raised, her eyes snapped open. "I'm fine," she grunted, looking at his still form, his eyes focused on her thigh. Her eyes lowered too, and she noticed the dark patch over the pants. She brushed her finger over it and felt the sticky wetness.

On the floor, he moved toward her, "You've started bleeding again," he remarked in a hushed rasp, his hand reaching to her.

Straightening her back on the wall, she flinched back. "It's fine," she said, backing further into the wall, and repeated, "I'm fine."

His eyes caught and bore through hers, over her flushed face. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, her telephone vibrated in her pocket. She took it out and saw that the report for the car that Finch had wanted her to mark as stolen had arrived in her inbox. She took out the card Finch had given her from her other pocket and forwarded the message to the e-mail address.

Her head bowed, with the corner of her eyes, she caught Reese watching her as she typed the address. She exhaled silently, then explained, "Finch," she said, "There was a car that we couldn't identify at Burton's place just after you got him out. We have the plate number, but it belongs to a shell company." She pressed the send button, and lifted her head to look back at Reese. "Your boss wanted me to report it stolen."

He nodded. "He'll try to turn the GPS on," he said, "What about the car?"

"I don't know much," she said, shrugging, "He thinks it belongs to Elias."

"Elias?" Reese asked back, a degree of surprise coloring his voice.

She nodded at him. "Yeah, Finch thinks Elias might be after Burton too because of some information that Benny might have passed to Burton on his last breath."

Reese turned left to shoot a look over the corridor that had a slight view of the couch where Burton was lying, then turned back to her. "Well, our guy is getting popular."

Bowing her head, she smiled, almost melancholically then felt his eyes focused on her again. "You shouldn't have come, Lauren," he said suddenly. Her head snapped up at him. "It's—" His words cut off by a loud knock at the door next to them then she heard Russian murmurs again.

They both sprang to their feet, his words forgotten, falling back to the living room. He pulled Burton off the couch, and hid it behind the corner at the left as he stationed at the opposite side. Lauren took the cover behind a rubble inside the adjoining room, her arms raised and trained at the direction of the door.

Before a minute, three Russian men entered, their head popping inside. One of the men shook his head. "We already checked this damp pit," he said, turning around, "as dirty as before."

The second man followed him outside but the third, the youngest still lingered, his eyes staring at the corridor. The door closed behind the other two as the young man started pacing around with careful strides. His steps faltered on the threshold, his eyes still giving glances back, but the next moment he turned and held the handle but before he could open the door, Reese grabbed him at his right shoulder, his gun pointed at the back of his neck. "Looks like you're left behind," he whispered into the man's ear, pulling him back into the apartment.

"Screw you," the man said back.

Exiting from her post, she gave out a smile. "It's a bad move to insult your hostage taker, Laszlo," Reese commented, tying the man's hands at his back. She turned to him.

"Laszlo?" she asked, her eyebrow rose, "as in Laszlo Yogorov?"

"The same," Reese answered, slanting a look at the youngest son of the Russian mafia head, with a smile on his lips, "And he's going to tell us what this is all about."

"Screw you," Laszlo said again. This time Lauren sighed. "You're not making it easy for yourself, Mr. Yogorov," she commented, bracing herself on the wall.

The young man looked at them. "Do you think we'll let you take him?" he asked, pointing at Burton with his head. "He's _ours._"

Burton walked out of the corner Reese had hid him, eyeing the young mafia heir, "I don't have any quarrel with you. I just want to go home."

The Russian man tilted his head with a smile. "Don't we all, Mr. Burton?"

Glaring at the man, Lauren neared Reese, her leg almost limping. "We have leverage in our hand now. Let's move out of here," she whispered to him, her eyes traveling around, "This whole place is giving me creeps."

And perhaps just because he felt mercy for her or he was feeling the same, he nodded. He got nearer, his eyes inspecting her carefully. "How are you?" he asked, "Can you hold up?"

"I'm fine," she bit off, and pointed at Burton, "You worry about him."

Giving her a heated look, he took a step closer. "Lauren—" he started but his words were once again cut off by another message. She took out her phone, and looked at the photo of the police officer next to the car that Finch had discovered. "I know this man," she said, her eyes focused on the scar on the man's cheek, "The scar guy," she said, lifting her eyes up at him, "he was at the bodega today."

Taking her phone, Reese walked to Burton. "You saw this guy before?"

Burton shook his head, looking at the photo then looked back at the Reese. "Is this Elias?" he asked, "Is it him?"

Reese shook his head, "I don't know," then approached to Laszlo, and showed him the phone. "Do you know this guy?"

Laszlo gave him a smile, and said again, "Screw you."

Reese walked into his personal space, his hands already balled into fists. She moved toward them, and put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes skipped over her even though his face stayed at the same position. "We're losing time," she said, "Our priority is to get Burton to safety."

His eyes stayed focused on the younger man for a little while then he finally nodded, grabbing Laszlo's arm. "We're going to talk about it later, Laszlo," he said, dragging the man toward the door. She walked back to Burton and did the same.

With the weight of Burton, her thigh started aching more than before but she didn't make a sound, just followed Reese in the corridor as he led them toward the service elevator. The biggest thing that worried her now was the elevator or how they would leave the building if Reese couldn't manage to work it. With a defiant head shake, she chased the last thought off. The lift was going to start, they were going to drop Burton into Carter's custody then they were going to forget this day ever happened, just like they had done every time before. And at the moment, it sounded just fine.

Two minutes later, they arrived at the elevator. Leaving their hostage at the corner, Reese looked at her. "Lauren," he said, pointing Laszlo with his head. She neared toward the corner, and raised her gun directly at the Russian man. "No funny business," she warned flatly.

The man gave her a seething look. Taking his pocket knife out, Reese shot a look at him, too. "Heed the lady's words, Laszlo," he said, pulling the control panel of the elevator off, the tip of his pocket knife nicking the edge of metal, "she isn't in the mood to play."

For a split second her head snapped at him, and she saw a slight smirk twitching at the corner of his lips as his eyes stayed focused on the work in front of him. Shaking her head a little, she turned back to the man, and raised her arm higher, and confirmed, "No, I am not."

The next moment the doors opened. Without another word, she pulled back Laszlo away from the wall and threw him in the elevator. Reese followed with Burton, and two minutes later they were finally out of the building.

Craning her neck up, she looked at the sky, the approaching dawn coloring it to a mystical purple and grey, then turned her head toward east, where Brooklyn Bridge Park lay. "The first ferry is in two hours," Reese said, grabbing Laszlo again from her, then turned to left, "Let's move."

It took them more than an hour to get to the park where they could take the ferry for Pier 11, Reese confusing their tracks with a circular route, going in and out of the deserted alleys as the city still slept under the newly-born sun.

Her limp increased with each step she took together with Burton, her trembling skin now completely burning, heat emitting off her body together with sweat and tingles. Burton next to her wasn't in any better condition, his head bowed, his skin covered with perspiration, too, and his trembling even worse than hers, but he was still keeping up. Like Reese had said, he was a tough guy. He was a good guy. She half turned her head to him, and gave the man a tight but encouraging smile. "It's just over there, Mr. Burton," she said, clutching him tighter.

The bald man lifted his head up and nodded at her then he muttered something, so slow that she didn't hear it. She leaned forward, then heard him say, "Thank you, thank you, Lauren."

Her smile grew bigger as her eyes caught the first sight of Brooklyn Bridge. She was right. He was a good guy, and he was worth the trouble she had endured. Her shoulders straightened back as she walked into Brooklyn Bridge Park.

Half an hour later, they were in the first ferry. The vessel was deserted, only a few passengers sitting inside, their eyes closed, already asleep. Walking through the corridor, Reese led them to the backside of the vehicle, and they stayed in the open air. Reese secured Laszlo along a pole that was hidden from the windows view then came to stand next to them at the railings. "How are you?" he asked, his eyes traveling between them.

She returned his searching look. "We're fine, but he needs to give his testimony as soon as possible," she answered, and turned to Burton. "Is it okay, Mr. Burton?"

The school teacher nodded. "After all things happened last night, I can't stay doing nothing..." he said, shaking his head. Reese nodded then her telephone started vibrating once again. Seeing Finch's number on the screen, she put the speakers on, and Finch's unusually agitated voice greeted them, "You have a problem, Detective," he said, "Elias just left for Pier 11 together with his men. I found the car, on the way to meet with you."

She stared at the telephone. "What?" she barked out, "How did they know?"

"I was wondering about that as well, Detective," Finch snapped back, with something that had her eyebrows pull into a scowl. She didn't like that tone, no she didn't.

Just before she was about to answer, Reese snatched the phone away from her hand. "Finch," he interrupted, "where are they?"

"Already at the rendezvous point," his boss supplied.

"Take cover, and wait for us," Reese answered flatly, "We'll get through them."

He closed the phone, and turned to her, clearly to tell her something but before he could do anything, Burton's voice echoed over the wind from their back, "And I just thought I could really trust you, Detective!" the school teacher forced out, his head bowed with the same disappointment that colored his tone.

Her head whipped at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Someone told that man where I would be," the man said, slowly walking towards her.

Her eyes narrowing, she got closer to him as well. "And?" she asked challengingly, her chin rose.

"And the Russians found us as soon as you came to us," Burton said back, not backing down.

She gaped at him, shaking her head, her mind suddenly numb hearing those words actually spoken to her, "I _came_ to help you, you little ungrateful bastard," she hissed at his face.

Reese grabbed her arm. "Lauren," he told her in a lower voice, "Someone has been giving them information from the start."

She couldn't believe her ears. She couldn't believe after all the things she had done he could stand there and tell her that. Her eyes watering, she shook her head defiantly to chase away the tears, and yelled again, because otherwise she felt she would cry. "It wasn't me!" She looked at him straight at his eyes, but over his face there was that look he had given to Burton earlier, and she couldn't believe that either. "How could you even—" She started but her words were cut off again by Burton.

"Then who was it, Detective?" the school teacher demanded.

"I DON'T know!" She yelled.

Then a laugh erupted in the middle of them, amused and entertained—like they were on a stage. Their heads snapped at Laszlo who was still laughing loudly, his laughter carrying over the sounds of waves. She looked at him hard. "It was you, wasn't it?" she asked, approaching him, her hands fisted.

"Why would he talk to Elias?" Burton asked, "He's his enemy."

The Russian's eyes swept over her and found Burtons'. "Why indeed, Mr. Burton?" he asked, laughing.

Her eyes flashing, her hands gripped the man's throat. "Do you think it's funny?" she asked back, tightening her fingers, but a second later, an arm wrapped around her waist, and Reese pulled her back.

"Lauren, be calm," he told her flatly, putting her back to Burton's side, "Charlie is right. Why would he talk to Elias?"

The Russian's mafia heir laughed, together with grunts, and shook his head. "You're in the middle of a situation that you don't even understand," he said, and over her his eyes found Burton's again. "Do you think we couldn't figure it out?" he asked to Burton. She turned around, and looked at Burton. Something wasn't right. With the corner of her eye she saw Laszlo turning to Reese. "Do you _honestly_ think we'd go to all this trouble—" Burton's hand went to his backside, "just for a—_witness_?"

As soon as the words left his mouth three things happened at the same instant. First she heard Reese yell at her as she took a step back, reaching for her gun, but another gun, another gun held by the man she had come to protect was already aimed at her.

"Drop the gun and kick it to me, Detective," he warned her with a flat voice, his demeanor of a limping wounded man turning into a focused one, battered but still on his legs, his gun trained at her head with no trembling. His eyes skipped to Reese. "You too, John."

She did as she instructed, together with Reese, and smiled, letting out a loaded sigh. "Well, that explains it, I guess."

The man smiled back at her courteously. "I'm sorry I've caused you this much trouble, Detective," the man said, "You can be sure that it wasn't my intention."

She sniffed, catching Reese move toward them with the corner of her eye but the same second Burton raised his gun higher. "Stay still, John," he warned sternly, "We've given Ms. Fusco enough trouble as it is. You wouldn't want her to bleed more, would you?"

Raising his hand up in the air, Reese stayed where he was. "I thought you didn't like guns," he said with a curt rasp.

"You know, sometimes you have to do things you don't like," Burton-Not-Burton shot back.

Reese gave out a snicker, "Like teaching history to the children of your enemies?"

The new mafia leader in the town shook his head at the words. "Three years, I watched them—" he said, his gun still trained at her, "cleaning up after the children of those pigs. It's a good amount of time to learn what makes your enemies tick, what makes them weak." He turned toward Laszlo slightly, "you know all the secrets you and your family tried to hide, Laszlo? I learned all about them from your own flesh and blood." He gave the Russian man a tight smile, "Your children hate you almost as much as I do."

He then turned back to her. "John has zip ties in his jacket pocket, Lauren. Please, tie him to the railing, then yourself." She half spun on her heels and walked to Reese. She took the zip ties and held Reese's hands. She made a loose knot but Elias shook his head, "Tighter, please, Lauren. I know how capable you both are of getting out of difficult situations."

She tightened the zip with a curt movement then started with her own hands just in front of Reese. "On your knees, please," Elias instructed further.

"You were meeting Benny at the bodega that day, weren't you?" Reese asked kneeling down as she finished with tying. He was trying to get things clearer but Lauren felt she didn't care, not really, not anymore. Finishing with the bonds, she knelt on the ground too, with difficulty, but she had become numb to the pain. "The shooters were looking for you," Reese continued as she sat facing him.

"Yeah," the man admitted, "the benefits of no one knowing who you are or what you look like." He paused for a second. She turned half over her shoulder and saw a slight scowl over his face. "That's gone now, I suppose. It's time to evolve," he said, and declared, "I'm ready for the next step."

He then turned to Laszlo, together with his gun. Their heads snapped at the younger man too, who was looking at the gun that was pointed at his head defiantly. "Go ahead," he told Elias, "I'd rather die than see you running my city."

Elias walked closer to the Russian man, but this time there was no limping or staggering in his steps, and he looked like a king in a battlefield, battered and beat but all of his enemies were on his knees as he was standing.

"You know what Benny said before he died?" the newly raised mafia leader asked, his voice basked in the glory of his victory, "He said "veni, vidi, vici"- I came, I saw, I won. He said your almighty Bratva was already crumbling." He paused for a second. "He said we'd already won." His gun rose higher, as his voice, "This is for Benny."

She turned her head away, as Reese yelled, "Elias, if you kill him—"

"I'm not going to kill him," Elias cut him off with the same tone, "I'm just going to send a message." Then the gun shot echoed, and Laszlo's howls mixed in it as the man cried with pain. For a moment, she thought how could he do it, shoot a man in a ferry, then she understood it was all of a stage, from the start. The people she had seen on the ferry were his, too; a back up, if things didn't go according to his plan.

"You tell your papa, Laszlo, if he gets out of town tonight, I'll let him live," the manipulative told the whimpering man on the ground with a clear and stern voice and raised the bars, "Brighton beach belongs to me now."

He then approached them as the ferry neared the dock. Shaking his head, he slowly crouched in front of them. "I thought about killing you," he told them conversationally, "But then I realized that that would seem really—" his eyes found hers as a thin smile erupted over his lips, "_ungrateful_." Snapping her head up, she shot at him a look like a dagger, his smile grew bigger. "Besides, how do you take the life of people so— talented?" he asked again, then his voice lost the amusement as it turned serious, "I could use guys like you in my organization."

Sniffing, she turned her head away, with the same thing Laszlo had given to them, "Screw you," but John only stared at him, his eyes cold and storming, but not bothering with an answer.

Letting out a sigh, the mafia leader stood up, his eyes now trained only on Reese. "I wish you luck, John," he said, then said for the last, "If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours."

This time Reese spoke, his eyes turning even colder. She only wanted to go home. "What if I don't?" Reese asked, his voice promising that he would not, that Elias now had another enemy that once had saved his life. And she found herself not caring for that, either. She only wanted to go home now.

"Then we'll meet again under less pleasant circumstances," Elias said, before he turned around and left the ferry. Craning her neck up, she saw Elias meeting with the scarred police guy at the wooden port, already cleared out too. The two shared a tough guy hug with each other before they left Pier 11, leaving them behind.

She turned back. "I have my switchblade in my pocket," she told Reese stiffly, her eyes looking everywhere but him. She didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't even want to be in the same place with him. As soon as she got herself free, she was going to leave.

"Lauren—" but the bastard stayed where he was, his voice now a bit softer, but still with the edge, "I—"

"Just take the damn knife, John," she cut him off with a hiss, her eyes still focused ahead of him.

This time, without another word he did. He freed them a second later, and she stood up, feeling the acute cramp in her thigh, but without losing any time, she started limping toward the front side of the ferry to get off. Before she jumped down from the crude ladder to the other side of port, Reese grabbed her arm. "We need to get you to a hospital," he said, pulling her at his side.

She pulled her arm free from his grip, and walked off the ferry. "I'm fine," she bit off, "I don't need help."

He caught her again, this time tighter. "Lauren, this isn't a good time for that," he told her, a clear warning edging his voice, "We'll talk about it later."

She spun around, and got closer to him, so close that her chest touched on his. "There is nothing to talk about," she hissed through her teeth, "If you need my assistance, Mr. Reese, just text me. I will supply you with whatever you need," she said, and gave him a last look before she turned to leave, "And tell your boss to call someone else, if he ever loses _his_ pet again."

* * *

><p><em>Oh well, we have a rift now. <em>

_Like I said to persevera before, it was necessary, or else this could have been really a short story, John and Lauren taking a fast dive to the bed, where would be fun in that? He he. But in the show Lionel and John's interactions become fuzzy some of times, I mean, in Witness this sort of happened, then the next chapter Lionel singlehandedly saves him, and then in Carter's episode, John is again bitching at him. I generally like their relationship a lot, obviously, but sometimes it swings back and forth a bit too much for my liking. For that reason, I'm skipping the next episode (basically it has the same essence for Lauren, Lionel trying to save John(and did too), and Lauren already did it in this chapter, so...) and the next one will be Carter's episode. I also want them at odds in Carter's episode, because John is still supposed to develop platonic feelings for Carter... Anyways, short story to long, be seeing you with "Get Carter"._

_ciaociao._


End file.
